#CW: Brief mention of Flesh burning

[msv0id]

CW:Mentions Of Cannibalism, Cooking Flesh and Flesh burning.

Jung cannot possibly fuck with Eyeless Jack, nothing against the guy, he's a chill man but, Jung cannot stand him nor be in the same room as him whenever he cooks the flesh of his dead victims. It would just remind him of his own layer of skin burning off during the “accident”.

[philistiniphagottini]

Couldn't sleep last night so I wrote a little something for Jiyan until I felt tired. This is very self indulgent on my part.

cw. fluff, mentioned nudity (but no smut) dragon hybrid reader (similar to vidyadhara) , mentions of heat cycles, cuddling, gender neutral reader

It was the middle of the night when you abruptly stirred awake. Your body was drenched in a hot flush as your eyes shot open, your body jerking as you quickly sat up. Layers of fluffy blankets pooled around your waist, the thin, silk robe you wore lazily clinging around your shoulders as the sash was poised to unravel at a moment's notice. Beads of sweat dotted your brow as you took a deep breath, heat coiling in the pit of your stomach as your blood simmered in your veins. Your eyes pinched shut for a few brief seconds, long lashes fluttering over your burning cheeks as a soft groan breezed past the seam of your lips. Of course, it had to happen now, you lowly cursed. 

Your sudden movements had disturbed your partner, Jiyan, his body moving to mimic yours as he sat up in bed. His eyes roved over your form, darkness bleeding into the corners of his vision as he carefully studied you. 

"Are you alright, love?" he asked, voice gruff and thick with sleep. 

Your head snapped in his direction; pupils narrowed into thin slits as you regarded him. Your long, serpentine tail coiled beneath the sheets, the tip flicking as golden scales brushed against his bare leg. His muscles tensed from the featherlight touch, your normally cool scales suddenly burning like the hot coals of a forge. The branching horns nestled on top of your head faintly glowed with a shimmering, golden light, the ethereal light highlighting your flustered expression as your lips parted around rapid pants. Each puff of air seemed to curl around your lips like wisps of steam, your eyes growing lidded as your head started to feel dizzy. The words that Jiyan had spoken barely even registered in your mind, your head feeling like it was stuffed full of cotton as your flesh continued to burn with a lingering heat that tickled the base of your spine. You shook your head, soft locks of your hair sticking to your sweaty forehead as you swallowed the budding saliva on your tongue. 

"It's too hot" you murmured in a breathy whisper.

Sharp talons sank into your robes, your fingers curling into the thin material as you yanked it from your being. You tossed it aside in a flurry of cloth, the sweat soaked robe tossed to some random corner of the room. You were left completely bare, nothing to hide you from the general’s concerned gaze as a sigh of relief tumbled from your bruised lips. The relief was only temporary as the heat continued to claw at your nerves, trickling into your belly as the constant itch of your nerves started to make you squirm in discomfort. Jiyan silently shuffled closer to your side, arms poised and ready to assist as he kept his eyes trained on you. 

"Are you alright?" he asked again. 

Your soft pants filled the air of your stuffy bedroom and when you didn't respond immediately, he pressed again. 

"Love, speak to me."

His voice was finally able to reach you as you turned your head towards him, slowly lifting your gaze to meet his. 

"Jiyan."

His name warmed your parched throat like cloying honey, each syllable sweeter than the next as it danced on your tongue. Jiyan was ready when he saw the way your shoulders tensed, your tail coiling like a snake ready to strike as you pounced on him. A soft grunt blew past his lips as you landed in his lap, your knees falling beside his hips as you landed perfectly on top of him. You buried your burning face in his chest, arms latching to his waist as your golden tail weaved between his thighs and curled around his ankles. You pressed your weight into him, coaxing him to lean back further as he was suffocated under the stifling heat of your body. His movements were slow and deliberate, hesitant and frightened that he would scare you in such a sensitive state. He knew what was wrong. He had figured it out the moment you had to rip your clothes off to find any semblance of relief to the heat running rampant around your body. He placed his hand on top of your head, gently ruffling the soft locks of hair as he gazed down at you. 

"Are you finally going into heat?"

You gently nodded your head, bunting your face further into the hard planes of his muscular chest, a content noise in your throat as you squished your cheek into a pectoral muscle. Your tail continued to coil around the length of his leg as you rubbed your body against his, lazily spreading your scent until it bled into his skin. His scent curled in your lungs with each breath you took and you could taste him in the back of your throat every time you swallowed. His familiar scent was reassuring and it was able to ease the heat in your belly for now as you cling to him like he was a life line. 

"I'm sorry" you whispered, your warm breath puffing against his skin. "I just want you close."

A soft hum rumbled in Jiyan’s chest as he rubbed the calloused tips of his fingers against your scalp. You purred happily in response, the vibrations dancing along his skin as you pressed yourself further into his embrace. A soft smile tilted his lips as he gazed at you fondly, basking in the contrast of your soft curves against his hard muscles. This whole heat cycle was new to him. You had warned him it was coming soon and your draconic instincts had been flaring up for the past several days. It had been interesting to witness your “pre-heat” stages, watching you fret over building the perfect nest, watching you chose only light clothes that wouldn't irritate your skin. Witnessing you stick to his side like glue and refusing to be apart from him for long. Such a strange and wonderful creature you were. 

Jiyan’s arm snaked around your waist as he tugged you closer, your chest still vibrating with soft purrs as he gently ran his fingertips along the curve of your spine. Pleasant tingles rippled down your back as the soft tufts of fur on your tail puffed up, the feathered tip of your tail tickling his foot as you rested more and more of your weight against him. 

"It's okay" Jiyan reassured. "I'm not going anywhere."

You both fell into a comfortable silence as the heat inside of you turned into a dull but manageable throb. Your nose brushed against the hollow of Jiyan’s throat as your hands snuck under the soft material of his shirt, your hands resting against his abdomen as you kneaded the skin with your paws like a contented cat. Jiyan couldn't contain the small chuckle that rumbled in his chest at the sight. His lips brushed against your damp forehead, fingers brushing long wisps of hair out of your eyes as he tucked them behind your ears. 

"Is this okay?" he asked. "Do you need more?"

His words warmed your heart, your pulse drumming rhythmically in your ears as your pointed ears perked up at the sound of his soothing voice. You slowly shook your head, peering up at him with dazed eyes. "No. This is enough."

For now, you still had most of your senses intact. You knew that would change in only a few, short hours and your instincts would reduce this proud dragon into nothing more than a mindless beast that would only crave until its hunger was sated. But for now, that beast was contained and being wrapped in Jiyan’s embrace like this helped to calm your frantic senses. For the first time in a long time, you wouldn't have to endure another heat cycle alone. No more yearning and aching nor longing for the touch of a partner you didn't have. He was here now by your side and it was enough.

[divinelolita]

need more hard dom Tom x m!reader 🙏like readers being a brat n gets punished..🤤🤤

TOM KAULITZ X BRAT MALE! READER

cw: bondage, degradation, brat tamer! tom, bratty! reader, spanking, fingering, mentions of overstimulation, edging, brief mention of a 'sir kink'

a/n: hii! 😸 im too lazy to write aftercare but i promise you'd get the most ethereal, breathtaking, awesome aftercare from tom 🙏🏼🤗

"Baby, what on earth is going on with you today?"

Tom's exasperated voice echoed in your head as you both sat at a café table, Tom's cup of hot coffee whispering streams of smoke as he took a small sip.

You were...extremely difficult today. You were acting so rude, childish, and overall just a huge brat! He didn't understand...you were almost never like this. When you didn't immediately answer, your bottom lip sticking out further, he let out a small hum.

"Hmm? Answer me. I know you heard me." He demanded softly, watching your eyebrows furrow as you let out a little whine. He took in a deep inhale, he could feel the frustration and anger building up inside him. Lord, all he wanted was an answer.

When you kicked his leg under the table a little, he hissed softly in pain, his jaw clenching a little. Your pout almost faltered into a smirk, you knew you were getting on his nerves now!

"...I'm getting impatient, angel. Please, tell me what-" He began slowly, a hint of warning in his voice. He softly reached over the table to try to grasp your hand. His eyes widened a little as you swatted his hand away, followed by a, "Shut up!"

Oh. Oh.

"...that's it. Get in the fucking car." Tom ground out as he slammed his coffee mug on the table, little splatters of the beverage falling on the table as he stood up and stalked over to his car, starting it up. Your lips quirked into a small smile, it worked. But at what cost...

"You think you can act like that? Huh? I guess I have to knock some fuckin' respect in you."

Tom huffed as his hands roughly gripped your hips, pulling them to you were laying over his lap. You whined, hands struggling against the bindings on your wrists that were connected to the bedpost. You swallowed shakily, you couldn't see him. You didn't know what to prepare for!

"Stupid little slut...you just had to piss me off, huh?"

He murmured, moreso to himself as he firmly pressed down on your lower back, causing your thighs to tremble and for your ass to raise up in the air ever so slightly.

You yelped as a sharp, harsh spank was landed across your ass, a painful burn spreading across your skin as it turned a bright pink hue. You whimpered loudly as you squirmed in Tom's lap, yet his strong, large hand firmly took hold of your hip.

"Uh-uh. Bad boy. Stay still." He demanded as he left another harsh swat against your already burning flesh, making you yelp. Your thighs shook as you felt a familiar throbbing in your lower abdomen.

"Sir.." You hiccuped quietly. You felt his strong hand sliely massage your throbbing ass before he plants another smack over your cheek, yet it's softer than the past two.

The smacks continued until you were a sobbing mess in his lap, squirming and whimpering , repeating "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry" or "I won't do it again!" under your breath between sobs.

"I got'cha." He whispered quietly, his soft words instantly relaxing your tensed muscles. You tried to look over your shoulder as you heard a bottle lid pop, yet he tugged on your hair roughly back around. You whimpered, yet obeyed. What choice did you have?

You gasped as you felt a thick, cold finger gently run up and down your hole, circling it slowly before pushing in. A painful yet pleasurable spark ran through you as his lubed finger slowly pushed inside, a small whine escaping your lips.

He hummed, placing a small kiss to your plump ass as he began to croon his long finger inside you, trying to find the spot that has you writhing against him. When his calloused fingertip eventually found the spongy material of your prostate, your whole body jerked as you nearly screamed.

"There- right there, sir!" You pleaded as your hands cxlenched into fists against the ropes around your wrists. You heard him chuckle behind you softly, you could practically hear the smirk on his voice.

"Such a needy whore..." He whispered as he squirted a little more lube over your hole before pressing a second finger in. He smirked as he heard you hiss, the sting burning yet so euphoric feeling at the same time. His thick, long digits began to curl inside you, fingertips rubbing your prostate with expert precision.

You were sobbing loudly, hips grinding desperatley into Tom's lap as he fingered you, it felt so fucking good! You felt a knot tie in your stomach, your prostate throbbing roughly against Tom's fingers.

As soon as he felt you begin to clench down on his fingers, he quickly pulled them out of your tight hole. He laughed quietly as you whined and gasped at the loss, crying loudly as you hiccuped.

"Awh...my poor baby. Only good boys can cum, and you have to prove you should be able to...have you sobbing in my lap begging to cum, like the pathetic little thing you are."

He purred, raising a firm eyebrow. "Or maybe that's exactly what I'll do. Have you cum over and over until you're a dumb, drooling mess. Doesn't that sound fun?"

He cooed as his slick fingers slowly pushed back inside you. You gasped, whining as your hips bucked. You wondered which punishment rout Tom would go down...

[midnightarcheress]

and they said speak now

we’re meant to combine. to heat each other up, to become one. pairing: simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader cw: angst. no comfort. angry yearning simon. mentions of cheating. reader is part of tf141. no use of y/n. part 1 | part 2

you and Ghost have never been friends.

sure, you are acquaintances, colleagues, teammates. but friends? no. it's more of that weird position where you'd take a bullet for each other if necessary, but would never, ever, stand in the same room without a dense fog of tension circling your bodies, limbs trembling with pent-up unjustified fury.

it's been like this ever since you joined the task force. when Price announced a new member to the group, Ghost silently protested; in his head, four was more than enough people to cover their intricate missions, so making it an odd number would only throw off their balance - in and out of the field.

the first few days were surprisingly easy. being the new member was already hard, so you just kept to yourself, did as you were told, and stood out of everyone's way. but soon enough, you and Ghost started clashing. snarky comments evolved into name-calling, finger-pointing, and complete disregard for decorum. for any poor bystander that got caught in the cross-fire, it'd seem like two petty children throwing tantrums at one another, not two well seasoned soldiers of a special ops task force.

years passed, and it never got better. the hatred between the two of you was intense. palpable. frustrating. arousing. full of unspoken words that could never dream of coming out of your lips. even when you're spitting venom at each other and barking death threats - unfunded, in most cases - there was an undeniable spark underneath it all, simmering its way to the surface at every stolen glance during briefing, a pub visit, or a blood-filled battle ground.

he didn't want to admit it, but you worked well together. the minute you'd step in the field, a switch would flip in your minds and there wouldn't be any traces of hostility left, only a deep connection the transcended the need for talking. you'd understand what he needed just by looking in his eyes. his beautiful brown eyes. usually unreadable, but in action, they were the vessel for an obscure language you were oddly fluent on.

in missions alongside you, despite the constant pump of adrenaline coursing through his veins, he felt peaceful. the emotional turmoil in his brain regarding your existence would quiet down, being overruled by a sense of admiration and a strange vulnerability. he knew the range of your skills, but he couldn't help being amazed by your stance, your swift yet precise moves, your mindset. how could a person be graceful while stabbing another?

it was conflicting. the push and pull, the tiring tango that would go on and on with a song that never reached the end. a dynamic that drained the both of you but a dynamic that neither had the will to change. it was something. something that filled your dull lives, a flesh-eating flame that licked your skin every time your arms brushed, that somehow just kept burning brighter.

Simon could feel it. he felt it when you were stranded in a ruinous safe house during a snowstorm and had to cling into his chest to not freeze to death. he felt it when he saw your eyes sparkling as you gasped for air after hearing one of Soap's terrible jokes. he felt it when your blood stained his hands and your consciousness almost slipped out of his reach forever.

you could feel it too.

that's why the news of your engagement ripped his heart out of his chest. the heart he kept hidden behind a fortified wall, stranded in an island not even the bravest sailors dared to reach. but you, with all your stubbornness, got inside. maneuvered in the labyrinth of cracks of his heart and made yourself a little spot. a spot you were oblivious to.

for some delirious reason, you invited Ghost to the wedding. maybe you wanted all of your trusted teammates with you. maybe you wanted to be a little smug about your happiness. either way, you're a civil person, so handing him the invite was the sensible decision; giving him at least a choice.

he didn't like your fiancé. in fact, he despised the guy. it didn't matter that he was a well-known officer, full of achievements and medals, beloved by many, respected by all. in his eyes, the bloke was no more than a frail bastard looking for a doll to show off. how could you get married to that selfish prick? how could you subject yourself to the wishes of a man who only saw you as a prize? why does he care?

for an even more delirious reason, Simon decided to go. worst fucking idea.

his nerves were through the roof. fighting with the necktie like he was the one about to get married, but ultimately tossing it aside. he didn't want to go, he didn't need to go. but he also didn't want to give you the satisfaction of winning the round, he wanted to be the so-called bigger person and show you how he can put differences aside. celebrate your happiness. so he took a seat on the bench, waiting for the inevitable death march.

it was a small event. a few friends, barely any family. he watched as you floated down the aisle, draped in white satin and bearing the brightest smile he has ever seen. he was so accustumed to seeing the harsh expressions you would make at him, that he couldn't help standing in awe as the final fleckes on sunlight danced on your skin, shining on your face and nearly casting a halo over your head. all for the stupid dumbfuck standing at the altar.

Simon couldn't pay attention to the ceremonialist; his mind was too consumed by the disorientation of seeing you. seeing you as a bride. seeing you as a bride in the altar. seeing you ready to live the rest of your life with someone who's not worth one second of your time. he just sat there, transfixed by the scene and only concentrating on you. your beaming eyes, your plump lips, your soft hair, your fingers intertwined with your fiancé's.

the type of focus that made him not register the involuntary movement of his feet to the corridor after the priest said "...speak now or forever hold your peace."

"don't do it." Simon's gruff voice echoed in the small chapel, reverberating on your eardrum like a violent outburst.

confusion shaped the faces of your loved ones. everywhere you looked you saw grimaces, wide-eyes, and parted lips. the sound gasps followed by murmurs of disbelief, the atmosphere thickening by the second, making it impossible to breathe. but for you the room was quiet. too quiet.

"please, you can't-"

"Ghost." you interrupt, dropping your fiancé's hand and glaring at the man who had the nerve to taint your wedding. your mind was racing with a million thoughts. it must be a cruel joke on his side, creating a spectacle out of this, you think.

before you realize it, your hands are dragging Ghost by the arm to the back of the church, stuffing him inside of what looks like a storage room, full of antique paintings and candles.

"have you lost your mind?"

"i think i have," he answers, taking a deep breath, "i must be batshit crazy, i know. but you can't marry him." your eyes narrow, looking for any indication of it being a bluff. why is your half-colleague-half-enemy objecting at your wedding?

"this isn't you. him," he scoffs, gesturing to the man on the other side of the door, "isn't who you are. you're not the type to be controlled by a man, giving in into his act, calling it love.

"what?" you ask, utterly thunderstruck by his words, "calling it- i'm not being controlled, Ghost. i know you're not familiar with the idea, but people can actually love and respect each other."

he dismisses your comment. "do you truly love him?" Simon knows what love is, knows it a little too much and that's what keeps him distant from people. it never ends well. "can you seriously tell me that this isn't a desperate attempt to fill the void in your heart? you're not happy with him."

"i'm not getting married out of necessity, Ghost. and who are you to say that i'm not happy?"

Simon paces in the room, footsteps creaking the hardwood floor. he knew that he was only digging himself a deeper grave, but he couldn't back down now. he won't allow you to commit such a terrible mistake. "i know you. i've watched you ever since you started dating that mutt," he says, studying your face, "you look different around him. almost small. frail."

his words are sharp, cutting through the air like a scathing blade. you feel the anger in his tone, but there's something else beneath the surface. he's almost... tender?

"you reduce yourself beside him," he adds in a matter-of-fact way, taking a step closer to you, "you're a force of nature, a beast, a goddamn hurricane, not-" he glares you up and down "this."

"i don't reduce myself!" you suddenly shout, eyes boring into his skull, "you think that because i'm getting married i'm throwing myself away? i'm a fucking soldier!"

"i know that!" he shouts back, taking a towering stance over you, "does he know that? you know damn well that the minute you sign those papers he's gonna begin persuading you into retiring, into being a perfect little trophy wife he can parade to his buddies."

you laugh. a dry, dull, hollow laugh. you don't know if it's due the absurdity of his statement or the shocking concern laced in each word escaping his mouth. it's one of those moments you're certain you dipped into a parallel universe, because the reality of it all seems too insane to believe. you stand in front of him with arms crossed, pondering your next move in this godforsaken argument. of course he wouldn't give you a break, not even in your wedding day.

"come on, be serious with me for one moment. he doesn't care about you. the real you," Ghost grits his teeth, "he cares about having your warm body by his side, but he doesn't see the vulnerability hidden behind your eyes. the part you keep a secret, tucked away from the world."

you clench your fists, battling against the desire to punch his gut. you're too proud to ever confess, but his words are slowly getting to you, clouding your brain with doubt. "i'll admit, it's not entirely his fault. he's too shallow for his own good, only knows what you show him. but i see what you try to hide." he says in a quieter tone. luring you in, trying to dissipate the tension.

"it has crossed your mind, hasn't it?" you tilt your head, confused by his question, "us. you've wondered about it."

you scoff, "no, i haven't." lie.

"don't lie now, darling." the pet name should make your skin crawl. but it doesn't. he didn't say it in his usual condescending mode, the one he employs whenever he's mocking you. there's no poison in his tongue, it's... sugary. drips like honey over you.

"you feel the heat between us, the suppressed fire itching to make us combust," he steps closer, still lingering a few inches from your body but too close for comfort, "you know how good we are together. everybody sees our synchrony in the field, how perfect we work," his gaze remains unwavering on your eyes, "tell me truth."

"the truth? the truth is that you're a lunatic-"

his fingertips dig in your skin, burning a hole to your bicep. your breath hitches on your throat, startled by the unexpected use of force. his jaw tightens at the sight, muscle twitching and threatening the remnants of self-control that prevents him from kissing you.

your head spins. his face is close. his scent fills your nostrils to the point of dizziness, intoxicating your lungs and sending shockwaves through your nervous system. "fine!" you blurt, "i might have thought of it, but it doesn't mean anything. just because we work well together it doesn't mean we're made for each other, Ghost."

"but it means something."

the air is full of anticipation, tension, energy. it's the moment before a lightning struck. as the space between you decreases, the shield insulating your opposing charges falters, resulting in a rapid electrical discharge that jolts your heart to life. he pulls you into a kiss, daring you to push him away.

your lips meet with a boiling intensity, the fusion of desire, rage, and something more. time stands still as his tongue finds yours, softly massaging it with both tenderness and passion. his touch is eager yet deliberate, the loud thumping of your heart fades into a ringing on your ear as his hand moves from your arm to your waist, pressing you even closer to his body.

"no, stop!" you push him, catching your breath as he stumbles back into the wall, "what's wrong with you?! what's wrong with me? i have a fiancé waiting as i waste my time here with you!"

"god, you don't get it, do you?!" he yells, "he doesn't deserve you! you put him in a pedestal, and while i'm stuck dreaming about you every fucking night he's out there-" he stops himself, giving you a unfamiliar deer in the headlights look.

"he's what?"

silence.

"Simon, finish your sentence."

"look, i," for the first time in the whole exchange, Simon is stumped. he didn't want to bring up the topic. he curses his mouth for flowing with his anger and talking too much, "i didn't want to tell you, i wanted you to see with your own eyes how much of a dipshit he is, but," he gulps, "he's a fucking cheater. i've seen him at the pub a few times with different girls, hands all over, drunk kisses-"

"you're lying," you retort, holding back the tears that start creeping up the corners of your eyes, "he wouldn't do that."

"i really wish i was lying. i'm so sorry."

you lean back on a chair, trembling as your breathing quickens. you don't wanna believe what he says, he's just letting his jealousy speak. but deep down, you know. all the times he came home with a smudged red mark on his neck, a wrinkled phone number in his pocket he rapidly dismisses. it's so typical, isn't it? no matter how devoted you are to a man, they will always search for more. the insatiable need to desire.

Simon frowns at your quivering figure. his heart aches when the small tears make their way down your cheek, staining your white dress. he crouches in front of you, a hand on your knee trying to convey his support, his guilt for being the bearer of the fact, his love. give me your pain. i can handle it. you're not alone, my darling.

"don't touch me." you hiss, raising your watery eyes to his. the look of hurt in your gaze pierces through him like a sword. he wants to say the right words, to protect you, to give you a new reason to love, but his mind is incapable of forming a remotely comforting phrase.

the tears on your face are hot. the salt streams sting on your skin, but nothing compares to the sorrow that filled your ventricles. you can't stay like this, you can't let him win. you're stronger than this. you're stronger than him.

Ghost jumps when you suddenly stand up. the pain in your irises are now accompanied by the unmistakable wrath he's used to deal. only now, you don't direct it at him; instead, you open the door and stomp your way to the altar again, followed quickly by Simon, worried about what you're going to do.

"it's over."

"babe? what?" the fiancé looks down at you, bearing a disgustingly sly smile, not quite believing your words, "you're kidding, right?"

you don't weaver. despite your tear-stained face and obvious hurt state, your resolve is clear. he truly doesn't care about you. he never even went to check on you after you disappeared in a room with Simon, never felt a ting of threat because he believes the control he has on your soul is enough to keep you tight on the leash. "i said, it's over."

the grin in his face fades when he realizes your certainty. he glances at the tall figure in the back, ready to throw hands if he ever so slightly thinks about laying a finger on you. "of course. you." the man says, rolling his sleeves and making his way to Simon.

only to be stopped by you.

"he has nothing to do with this," you state, blocking his path and pushing his chest with a strength you didn't know you had, "this is between your cheating ass and me. i'm not gonna play into your game anymore. there's no wedding, it's over."

the glare he gives you is bone-chilling, and for a second you see his will to pounce at your throat. without any doubt, Ghost moves you aside and shields your body with his, eyes making all the communication. try me. one step closer and i'll kill you.

even with his conceited persona, he knows better than to actually pick a fight with Ghost. he wouldn't hesitate to snap his spine bare-handed, not even inside a church, so he backs off. it really is over.

in the meantime, you're already halfway out the door, breathing in a deeply needed huff of fresh air. it's the classical movie scene with a runaway bride after the big climax - but in this film, the bride is alone. not with the pining romantic counterpart that just poured his heart out.

your name falling from Simon's lips lead your soul back to your earthly form, the reality dawning on your head one more time.

"leave me alone, Simon."

"but," he stops in his tracks, taking in your scorched-earth appearance, "i don't want you to be alone, please, let me-"

"no," you cut him, "i don't need you near me right now. or ever, for that matter."

straight to the core. a gunshot would hurt less, he thinks. "you don't have to do this on your own. i know that our history prompts you to not trust me," he sighs, pondering for a moment if he should really speak what his spirit desperately long for, "i wanna change that. let me prove how much i love you."

his words find their way to your bleeding heart, contaminating your mind with the possibility of being loved by him. for someone who maintains his feelings at bay, kept under lock and key, he sounds sincere.

"love?" your scoff intercuts the rhetorical question, "the Ghost i met doesn't know love. he knows anger, knows disgust, disdain."

he watches your lips quivering, tears threatening the edges of your waterline once again. he wants nothing more but to reach for you, wrap his burly arms around your body and never let go. whisper comfort into your ears, sweet promises of devotion, and give the solace you yearn for.

"i need... time."

Simon looks up to your eyes, locking his gaze and quietly nodding. he understands. he isn't fond of leaving you in this state, but he knows you won't have a change of heart minutes after a love confession. not when he spent years showing you nothing but hate.

it pains him to see your sorrowful grim. pupils following attentively as each of your steps put more distance between your bodies, planting new cracks in his heart. it's only for a while, he repeats to himself as a mantra, cursing silently for treating you with such a freezing-cold demeanor, when all you did was warm his soul.

it was true. Ghost only knows the bad, dreadful emotions. only served you hate and didn't bother to change.

but the thing is, Simon has never hated you.

it's my first time writing like this so i'm a little self-conscious, but i'm also proud of myself <3 hope you like it! i wanna make a part 2, but idk.

little note - i had to edit it on my phone so it was kinda awful lol sorry for any mistakes

[writtenbymoonflower]

Shaken Soda

You have therapy and Remus is too kind. Remus Lupin x fem!reader. mondern!au

cw: mentions of therapy/mental health issues. Slight mention of unintentional self injury.

780 words

“Thank you, see you next week.” You muttered politely, exiting the small visiting room. 

“See you then.” Your therapist smiled warmly at you. You appreciated the gesture, but wrapped your arms around your middle protectively anyway.

"Bye." The word was just barely a whisper as you turned to walk down the hall, but you were interrupted.

“Oh by the way, we covered a lot today. I’m proud of you, Y/N. Just, make sure to look after yourself extra.” They gave another polite nod and skirted back into their office. You gave a tight-lipped smile at the now closed door before walking down the hall to the waiting area, dreading the walk home in the pouring rain and shivering cold. You pulled the hood of your coat over your head before checking your phone, stalling. 

Hey, dovey. It’s pretty nasty out so I’m going to come pick you up. Be there when you get out. x

You were equal parts grateful and distressed. Happy you wouldn’t be soaked down to your bones, but worried about your boyfriend seeing you in such a raw state. You checked the mirror by the entryway, wiping away mascara residue and pressing your cold hands to your cheeks in a desperate attempt to reduce the redness splotching over your eyes and nose. 

Though Remus would likely see through any attempts at sweeping your struggles under the rug, he was far more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for. 

You listened to the ding of the bell as you swung the door open, walking under the awning to where Remus’ black car was parked. You opened the door, being hit with a wave of toasty AC. 

“Hi lovely.” His amber eyes greeted you with their usual warmth. (Warmth that was pretty much reserved for you).

“Hey Remmy.” You said, much to quiet and reserved for his liking, leaning over the center console to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “Thanks for the spin. You didn’t have to drive in the rain.” Your comment earned an eye roll from Remus, though he was still smiling as he pulled out onto the road.

“Don’t. I get to spend extra time with you, and I’ll never complain about that.” He placed a large hand on your thigh, gently kneading the flesh there. “Almost forgot,” He reached into the cupholder. “Got this for you.” You were handed a to-go cup full of coffee. Your favorite. You swore you could sob all over again. 

“Rem… You didn’t have to.” 

“I wanted to. Anyway it wasn’t completely selfless, I was craving a fog.” You still looked at him all glossy and doe eyed. 

“Thank you.” Your voice was so small. It was only when he looked over at you that he noticed your swollen features and red-rimmed eyes. He could swear there were burns on your cheeks from the scratchy material of your sleeves after being rubbed and wiped raw and cruelly. 

“You doin’ okay, sweet girl?” He tried hard to keep his eyes on the road and stop a notch of concern from appearing between his dark eyebrows, knowing it would only push you more into your shell. 

“Yeah, ‘m okay.” You picked at your nails. Remus took a deep breath. 

“I’m not gonna make you talk about it,” He started and you tried to keep from wincing. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him or didn’t want to tell him what you had discussed, the emotions it brought up, but you knew that when you cracked the lid on your frayed feelings, everything would come out all at once. Tears, murmured fears and all. You were like a pop bottle that had been violently shaken, one wrong move and a mess would be everywhere. “But I want you to know I’m proud of you.” He checked the road around him before making brief eye contact with you. “Really, really proud. I know it can be scary. But also, please know, I’m here if you every need to talk about anythin’. I’ve got you, sweet girl.” 

You nodded as he turned onto your street. You were still feeling raw, but you could feel it subsiding, just by being in his presence. “I know you do.” You looked over at him as he pulled up to your place and put the car in park. It didn’t take many long for you to unclick your seatbelt, leaning over your drinks and wrapping your arms around his shoulders tightly. Remus stiffened in surprise, but then hugged you back, smoothing his hands up and down your thick coat. “Thank you.” You whispered into his neck. 

“It’s what I’m here for, lovely. I’m always gonna be here.” 

[k0yaz]

hiiii!!!! i’ve been your follower for a while now and i really like your works:> you’re one of my fav authors atm and i always find myself giggling and kicking my feet everytime you post something💞 can i also request a one shot with service top robin (hsr) x power bottom afab!reader? you don’t have to respond if you dont want to! i just wanted to try💞

my angel.

Pairings: robin x fem!reader

CW: nsfw, female reader, afab reader, power bottom reader, service top robin, sesbian lex hwhehhdhdeh, cunnilingus, jealousy mention, hair pulling, fingering, marking, GIRLS KISSING WOAH, wlw, petnames (love, angel), that pussy FIREEE DAMN, the way I wanna be reader so bad, wrote this with no tea so it might be bad :(, not proofread.

A/N: IM SCREAMING THATS ACTUALLY SO SWEET ILY IM SO HONORED TO BE CONSIDERED ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE AUTHORS YAY also everyone requesting the hsr characters im absolutely obsessed with do yall know something or am i just not slick about being obsessed with acheron and robin🕯️

“Is this alright?”

Robin’s sweet voice muffled against your soaked cunt, tongue lulled out as her emerald eyes flickered up at your arched form. Hands planted behind your back, you lowered your head to gaze upon your halovian girlfriend, whispering out a satisfied hum before threading your fingers through her hair.

“Mhm. Just like that.” You whispered, hushed voice attempting to bite back a moan from leaving you. Each swipe of her tongue massaging your clit elicited a pleased sigh spilling from your feverish lips, repeated motions of her tongue being engulfed by your hot walls driving you mad as your hips rolled up to meet her movements. Her movements only ignited a flame of desire within you—the desire to have Robin all to yourself.

The fact that your girlfriend was a famous idol always ate at your mind, especially whenever you could only imagine the filth that some fans of her mutter behind her back. Every quick glance cast at her by a random in her crowd never failed to make you tense up, your blood boiling especially whenever you saw one of them have evidently perverse intentions. However, Robin never failed to calm you down, reassuring you however she could. Including the way she was devouring you like a woman starved being one of them.

Her soft moans vibrated against your pussy, causing euphoric shocks to pulse throughout your quivering body as you threw your head back with a whine. Robin cocked her head to the side to angle herself perfectly against your cunt, fingers tightening into the supple flesh of your thighs as she parted them and allowed her tongue to flick against your heat.

“Just..like that..” you moaned out, balling your hand into a fist as it remained tangled in her lavender-tinted pale hair, earning a brief gasp from Robin. All of a sudden, she seemed to pull away from your cunt, leaving you utterly confused—and kind of empty as her head raised up to to meet yours, making your eyes widen a little upon coming nose to nose with her. Robin angled her head slightly, eyes fluttering shut as her lips locked with yours.

The velvety comfort of her smooth lips pressed onto yours, mixed with your own slick coating tongue made you nearly melt into her touch, an intense desire burning against your flushed skin. Your eyes abruptly shot open, grip on her hair tightening as you felt her soft fingers run along your slit in slow, tantalizing motions, causing you to choke back a lewd noise that threatened to spill out against her lips.

Pulling away, Robin’s eyes trailed down to your exposed neck, her heavy pants being cut short as her teeth pressed against the open spot. Your mind blanked as her fingers continued curling inside you, breaths coming out in quick gasps and shallow pants as your walls clenched around her fingers rhythmically moving inside you.

You barely drawled out a breathy laugh, moving your hands to rest against Robin’s shoulders, as the dim lighting above you grew blurry, and the satin sheets soaked with your juices. You basked in the pleasure of her fingers fucking you so well, and her bare body towered over you with her lips ghosting your throat.

“Ah- Robin, love…move a bit lower for me, would you?” You gasped, coaxing her shoulders downward, and signaling her to plant kisses all over your body.

Red marks bloomed against your skin with every hickey Robin imprinted onto your neck. Her groans filled the room each time she felt you clench around her digits, and saw the sight of your back arched up with your head thrown back in ecstasy. The way her kisses reverbated against your sensitive flesh only drove you over the edge, a familiar heat building up in your lower abdomen with each thrust of her fingers.

“Don’t keep me waiting, my angel.” You chuckled, only replacing it with another moan as she complied with your erotic command. Your eyes only squeezed shut as her movements grew rougher, fucking you into the sheets like you asked as you fisted the sheets between your free hand to ground yourself.

You briefly shot open one eye to look down at your girlfriend, her gaze meeting yours once more with heavy lidded eyes as she resumed her movements.

“No need to get jealous. I’ll give you whatever you need. I’ll reassure you as much as I can. You know that you’re the only woman for me.”

Her words ripped a whorish cry out of your throat as your head fell back and sank into the plush pillows, your orgasm washing over you and coating Robin’s fingers still buried in you.

Once you recovered from your high, you only smiled as she found her way beside you, snaking an arm around your torso protectively and kissing the back of your neck. You giggled at the ticklish sensation of her lips, turning around to press your nose to hers. All she wanted to do was make you happy, make you feel loved in any way possible.

And you would do the same just for her.

A/N: now playing: kehlani - jordan adetunji

sorry if it wasn’t up to par I didn’t have any tea 💔

[pricegouge]

I got thinking of all the other fun ways you could sensually burn someone that doesn't involve the possibility of giving your partner a third degree burn, so here's John refusing to put his cigar out on you.

John Price x gn!reader. Could be a soldier or a civilian, doesn't really matter

cw for drinking. burning, obviously. including 'light' branding. mouth as ashtray. unsafe + under negotiated kink practices. use of 'sir'. spit kink (why am I writing this so much lately?) brief mentions of sex, but nothing explicit here. mostly just weird ass fun. super abrupt ending/no aftercare because i had chores to do and wanted to wrap this up. not edited either, sorry. 

The first time you'd asked, John had looked considerate for all of two seconds before hitting you with the 'not tonight, love,' and distracting any follow up requests you might have had by fucking you so good and deep you were fairly certain you'd been bruised with the shape of him. He never brings it up again, so you do, weeks later, when he has you on your knees between his own, head tilted onto his thick thigh while he simply enjoys the taste of his cigar. He doesn't even bother touching you, one hand cradling a glass of scotch on the arm of his chair, the other rotating the smoking object of your attention.

"I want to try something," you mumble, voice low. Embarrassed. You hate asking for things twice, afraid to seem needy. But John had never given you a reason as to why he wouldn't do it last time, so you bite back your shame and hide yourself away amongst the folds of his thick cargos when he looks down at you. They've been softened over the years by wear and sweat, the weave buffed so thin it pills in the places his holster would rub against it. You rub your lips over them. Distracting yourself, maybe. Desperate for his softness, more like. Still, that's not what you ask for when he prompts you to continue. 

"Want you to put that out on me."

You don't bother clarifying what you're referring to. John knows. 

He places it in the ashtray now, leaning forward to run his hand over your scalp, calluses catching. There's still some smoke stuck between his teeth. It spills out across your face when he speaks, cedar and tea. "Not sure that's a good idea, pet."

You want to tell him of course it isn't, that you want his indifference. To bear the brunt of his recklessness. But John has always kept that side of himself carefully sequestered away from you, and admitting what you want in this case will only draw it further away. So when he looks down at you, eyes kind but confused, you can only whisper a soft, "Please."

John sighs, chest swelling and falling as he slumps back into his seat. He's not unsympathetic as his thick knuckles brush your temple, stroke the crest of your ear. "We can find something else for you," he hedges.

"But I want -."

"Is it the cigar itself? The smoking?" He sounds doubtful, knows the only time you smoke is when he breathes it into your lungs himself. Knows you don't plan on changing that any time soon.

But he's wrong because it is the cigar, and the smoking, and it's John most importantly. His scent, the authority he carries so effortlessly, so intricately tied to the hyper macho habit that shouldn't work but does because he can't help being himself. You don't know how to articulate that though, let alone explain why you want it seared into your flesh. Instead, you simply say, "Yes."

"Right," John grunts. "I thought about it, after you asked." He pulls a face, distasteful, continues, "Don't relish the idea of giving you such a nasty scar, pet."

"I'd take care of it," you gripe, pouty. John gives you a look that dares you to interrupt him again.

"I know you would. Always do such a good job taking care of me," he winks. "But there are tars and such in cigars that hinder the healing. Not to mention the ash that winds up in the wound," he grimaces.

For a moment, you allow yourself to fantasize; imagine that the oils would be trapped in your skin forever, that the burn would be left smelling earthy and dense instead of barbeque and antiseptic. But you know he's right, and acquiesce with a nod.

Thoughtful, John's hand leaves your face to take another drag. "C'mere," smoke leaks from his lips like a faucet as he says it and you know he'll offer you a drink in consolation for the request he's denied you. You're not disappointed when he guides you closer to him with a heavy palm on the nape of your neck, the warm butt of the cigar just slightly damp where it presses into your skin there. You take John's offering happily enough, take his cock even more enthusiastically after that.

No, the disappointment doesn't set in until the weeks that follow come and go, and the only indication you receive that John's even thought about your request comes in the form of a box of strike anywhere matches on his office desk one morning, a bic the next.

***

He waits until he returns from leave, ensuring you've been good in his absence before giving you your reward.

"Kneel, pet." He nods at the pillow set to the right of his office sofa, minimal and threadbare, cozy enough to pad your achy joints just fine. He uses it to soften his desk chair when you're not using it, you know. He would never make you use something he hadn't properly vetted first, after all.

You pout, having expected to be sat on his lap for your reward like you always are, but John just tuts, eyes warm.

"You'll like it, I promise."

He waits until you've settled to start setting up. He brings a decanter of scotch over with two glasses, pours you both one. He places his own on the side board and yours upon the coffee table. You don't reach for it, too busy watching his movements. Choosing a cigar is a long, drawn out affair involving much sniffing. Occasionally, he'll offer one to you to sample, taking into consideration whether the leathery notes make you crinkle your nose, or if the floral scents make you tilt in consideration. Whatever he settles on, he does not offer you a chance to veto.

You expect him to sit down after that, but he pats his pockets down theatrically, moving to his desk one last time when he finds them empty of whatever it is he's looking for. You don't bother hiding your interest as he shuffles through his drawers, but before you can catch a glimpse of whatever he's after, he turns his mischievous eyes on you.

"Eyes forward. Keep your mouth open and your teeth bared."

A gag? Some reward. It's a struggle not to roll your eyes, but you know John hates a brat, and you don't want to ruin whatever fun he's got planned for you tonight, so you do as you're told, staring up at the collection of framed medals hanging above the couch while he rumages about for a moment longer. When he comes into your peripheral, you hear him carefully lining some objects along the coffee table, but you don't dare look.

John notices, humming appreciatively as he finally takes a seat at the end of the sofa. "Being so good for me already, pet." His knuckles are heavy and rough where he strokes your temple, down to your jaw. You watch his eyes, note the way they cloud darker as his fingertips find your teeth. Along your bottom incisors, up to push against a canine. He calls you a good pet when the pads of his fingers stick to your dry enamel, and you cock your head in confusion. 

Smiling, John pinches your front teeth between thumb and forefinger, rubbing back and forth as is memorizing all the dips and edges. A small sound escapes your throat, unsure if you should be worried he's going to try pulling one. But John's eyes are far from cruel when his fingers abandon your teeth in favor of bringing his free hand to your face. You feel something coarse brush your bottom lip briefly, and then gasp and reel back in surprise when a soft pop is the only warning you get before a match ignites in your face.

John pays you no mind, twirling the end of his cigar over the match while you struggle to figure out why you taste sulfur. Your fingers find your teeth as if checking they are still there, relief flooding into understanding as you feel a foreign, chalky powder on the tip of your dry tongue. He'd struck the match off your teeth, the cocky bastard.

When the match goes out, John's cigar is only half lit. Reaching for another match, he tuts at you until you get your hands out of his way, offer up your fucking teeth for his use again. This time, you're expecting the strike and you don't flinch away when it ignites, heat spilling across your cheeks while he lets it burn for a moment just inches away. 

This time, when he lights his cigar, he puffs on it like one would light a cigarette, thick clouds of smoke building around him. "Close your mouth, pet. Get it nice and wet," he mumbles between deep drags.

It would be embarrassing, the speed at which you obey, if not for how sure you are that you will like your reward. Sure enough, by the time John's cigar is lit, the match has burnt down to his fingers, and he leans over you expectantly, spitting on your tongue when you open your mouth for his inspection. His eyes lock on your when he lowers the burning match stick to your tongue, but if he expected to find protest, he doesn't get any. 

The match tastes like ash, but it doesn't feel like anything as it sizzles against the wad of spit on your tongue.

"Good?" John asks as he tosses the used match to the side. It's perhaps a bit late, but appreciated all the same. You nod, emphatic, and John smiles down at you, perhaps a touch regretfully. Still, he's calm and confident when he pries your mouth open again, dangling another thick line of spit into your mouth. Honestly, it tastes worse than the match did, tar-soaked and heavy with nicotine.

That doesn't stop you from vibrating in excitement when he holds his cigar over your mouth carefully. There's a moment of intense eye contact, John trying to ascertain for certain that you can handle this. You don't dare move your mouth, but you pour every ounce of acceptance and eagerness into your gaze. John accepts with a soft huff through his nose. "Your reward," he informs you, tapping the shaft of his cigar heavily.

The shower of ash is minimal, but enough to make you flinch when one tiny fleck lands on your sensitive lips. John notices, holds his cigar off to the side in favor of leaning close and licking across your mouth. You meet him for as long as he allows, reveling in the oaky taste that coats his tongue. 

When he sits back, he's donned that serious expression he adopts whenever he's indulging you. You want to ask if he's sure he's good, but the words stick in your throat - congealed. John rolls up his left sleeve, displaying a series of four pink, inflamed marks on the inside of his forearm for your inspection. Ranging from the size of a pencil eraser up to half dollar, the smallest of the marks look the angriest: red and nobby in some places, they look like they will heel badly; whereas the largest of the lot looks hardly noticeable, a flat dark spot at worst. 

John takes another deep drag from his cigar, lets the rich smoke fall across your face as he talks through his exhale. "Are there any of these you don't think you can handle?"

You shake your head excitedly and John brushes his free hand over your throat, calming. Grounding. "'Course you can handle them, eh? Always so good for me." He squeezes your throat once, just because he knows you'll follow as he pulls away. You do, and he spreads his knees wider to accommodate you. 

"It's important you remember this is a reward, yeah? So you don't need to push yourself, or anything like that. If at any point you want to stop, you just need to say. Got ice packs in the freezer for you already," John nods at the minifridge in the corner. 

When he asks if you understand, you just nod, correcting yourself when he gives you an expectant look. "Yes, sir."

"Good pet. If you sit well for me - that means no flinching, no crying, and no whining if I take too long, you'll be rewarded after each one," he flicks his cigar illustratively, sending a small storm of ash falling into the tray on the table next to you. "Now, we're going to start with this one," John points at the second largest mark on his arm, a dense patch of three distinct burns no more than a half inch across. "This one shouldn't scar, but it is fairly recognizable if one knew what they were looking for. Where do you want this one?"

He's not wrong about it being recognizable. It takes you a minute but you remember being a pesky teen, pushing the tops of heated bic lighters against the faux leather of school bus seats, the distinctive pattern in which they'd melt. You know what it'll look like, to be spotted sporting something like that. 

"My thigh," you declare without really thinking, but you grow more confident when you think of the tender flesh, the way the relatively minor mark will feel there as compared to the angrier ones.

"Pants off then, pet."

You scramble to obey while John flicks the lighter. He tilts it so the open flame coats the metal, keeping his thumb safe on the butane pedal. He's still heating it when you come to stand between his knees. Distractedly, he asks where you'd like it, and then peers up at you from under dense brows when you point to a spot high on your thigh.

"Alright, sweetheart." John lets the lighter gutter out, then blows on it a moment. He presses it lightly against the pad of his other hand, testing. He doesn't even flinch, and part of you wants to tell him not to take it easy on you. But then he's asking if you're ready, and you're nodding, biting back a squeal as the hot metal is pressed into the meat of your thigh.

You don't flinch, but it's hard fought. It's more shocking than painful, but easy enough to ease into when John's right there, solid and warm. He coos at you, soft words you barely bother to discern. You lean against him because he didn't say you couldn't, and the movement presses the lighter into you more. It's cooling, technically, though it still feels hot as sin against the sensitive flesh.

John waits until your breaths come in huffs to relent, still murmuring sweetly. He tells you how good you are, how pretty you're gonna look covered in his marks. 

"I hope they scare," you admit, stupidly. John doesn't respond, but his eyes are intense when he guides you back down to your knees.

"Get your mouth good and wet, pet. Open when you're ready."

You watch him puff away at his cigar while you work to coat your mouth in saliva. You can tell he knows he looks good by the way he settles into the couch, legs spread like a whore. You want to be in his lap for this, consider asking for it before your next reward. For now, you settle for opening your mouth, preening when he inspects your tongue and finds it properly coated. 

"Ready?" he asks, and you nod, opening wider in excitement just to drink down the burnt taste when he drops it into your mouth, whining at the dissatisfaction of having no real substance to swallow around. 

"Fuck," John groans, "you love this, don't you, pet?"

You nod, hands coming up to his thighs. You walk yourself closer, unsure what you want but knowing you need to be closer. 

He obliges, tucking his cigar between his teeth so he can cup your face with both hands. "So good for me. Knew you'd like it." He grabs one of your wrists, mustache tickling the sensitive skin there as he licks a hot stripe over you. "Ready?" he asks, and you barely have time to register what he means before he's dropping more ash onto you.

There's not enough spit - not enough time has passed for ash to properly build up. You can't help the yelp you emit when a tiny ember smolders against your flesh. John shushes you, the little thing having already burned itself out. "You're okay," he says, and you are - just a pin prick pink mark left. "You need a minute?"

You take a moment to consider, but shake your head. 

"Use your words, pet," he warns.

"I'm ready to continue."

He hums. "Good job." Turning his forearm so you can see the marks there again, John points to the second smallest. Taller than the last, but thinner, the skin here looks blistered and angry, but the shape is indiscernible to you - just a thin, ovular line. 

"This next. Might scar, but pretty unidentifiable. Where we putting this one?"

Holding out the palm of your non-dominant hand, you point at the pad of your palm, wanting something highly visible and fleshy. 

"You sure," he asks, already reaching across you to pick something up off the coffee table. For the first time it occurs to you that you can look, and you go to follow his movements but John stops you with a hand on your jaw. "Eyes on me," he growls. It's the closest thing you've had to a real order all evening.

It's a zippo lighter this time, the click of it low and satisfying as he lights it. You don't have anything to occupy yourself with this time, so you're forced to sit patiently while he heats the lip of the cage around the flame. When he'd said earlier that you wouldn't get your reward if you were too impatient, you hadn't thought much of it. But now, twiddling your thumbs as you watch him concentrate, counting silently to a set number you do not know, the whine you promised not to make builds silently in your throat. 

You can tell by the set of his mouth that he doesn't stop counting, but his eyes find yours, challenging. You settle yourself more firmly on your cushion, determined.

The zippo is less pleasant. You groan when the thin, hot knife of it presses into your skin, but you don't look away from John, and you certainly don't flinch. He doesn't hold it in place as long this time, throwing it back onto the table behind you after only a few seconds as he presses kisses against your palm. 

"Sorry, sweetheart," he says as he eventually pulls away. "We can be done."

"No!" you cry, pain in your palm already forgotten. "No, sir, please, wanna finish."

"Next one's going to hurt worse," he warns, but you shake your head. 

"I don't mind. This one wasn't even that bad, it just -. It was different. Surprised me."

He frowns down at you suspiciously, but you're not lying and you let him look. John nods his acceptance after a moment, perhaps a bit too relieved. "You want your reward still, pet?"

"Yes," you enthuse, "only -." John cocks his head expectantly and you bite your lip. "Can I sit in your lap this time?"

"Oh, sweetheart," he grins, "of course." It takes him a moment to re-settle everything, bringing his supplies up to the side table which he turns you away from. But then you're comfortably tucked against his chest, mouth open expectantly for the reward which shouldn't be a reward, but very much is. Especially when he holds you tight after, licks into your mouth to share the dry remnants. 

"This next one's the worst one. Do you want to skip it? The last one is the easiest."

You hesitate. "Can I ask what it is?"

"You may ask what the next one is, but not the last one."

"What's the next one?"

John reaches behind you, produces a singular match. "This one smarts, I won't lie. And it will definitely scar."

Part of you wants to rise to the challenge - wants to prove to him you can weather anything he can. You're about to accept it when he reminds you, voice low, "This is supposed to be a reward, pet."

You deflate before you even realize you'd gotten all worked up. "Can we skip it?"

"Of course we can, sweetheart. Thank you for asking." He presses whiskery kisses to your temple, keeps his lips pressed there when he asks if you still want to do the last one.

"That's the big, pink mark, eh?" you hold his forearm up for your inspection, studying the only remaining mark it could be.

"Yes," he confirms.

"And you said it didn't hurt?"

"Barely even felt it."

You know you can be done, that John will fuck you just as well tonight as he always does on his first night back after a mission. You can say you've had enough, probably even ask for one last reward because you'd done so well explaining what you wanted.

But it would be a lie, if you did, because you know John's saved the best for last, and you do want it.

When you tell him as much, John grins happily and kisses you deeply. 

"This one won't hurt. Won't scar, either, but it'll be pretty obvious what's done it to the boys around base while it heals."

You know what he means when you hear the jangle of his dog tags behind you. "Here," you breathe, pointing to your chest before he can even ask where you want it.

"You sure, pet? The boys'll know what it was if -."

"Don't care," you insist, already taking your top off. You point to the flat of your sternum, drum your fingers there excitedly. "Here, please, sir."

"Alright," he chuckles, placing his cigar back in the ashtray. "Give me a minute."

As it turns out, you do have to give him a full minute while he heats the metal over the open flame of the zippo. You nearly break your promise to yourself not to whine, especially when your eager rocking has you pressing up against his hard cock. John only spares you a dark look when you discover his state, rocking his hips up only once - and there more as a threat to dislodge you than to actually provide either of you friction. 

But then he's deemed the tag hot enough, and he's urging you to lay back over the arm of the sofa. He doesn't ask if you're ready this time, simply presses the metal against you with his own bare palm. You writhe under him, jittery and unmoored. He doesn't help when he takes a nipple into his mouth, breaths heavy and hot against your skin.

John doesn't pull the tag away until it's gone skin-warm, heat transferred to both of you fairly quickly. He brushes his whiskers over the inflamed skin after, just to watch you twitch and hiss, and then presses one last kiss there before sitting up. 

"One last reward, pet?" 

You nod, sliding to your knees between his unthinkingly. He doesn't ask why, just guides your head back by the grip he gets on the cradle of your skull. You know the drill by now, but you open your mouth far too soon, groan happily when he tuts and coats your mouth with his own spit. 

"Should withhold this just for that," he growls, but he's far too eager when he pulls deeply from his cigar, inspects the end to be sure there's adequate ash. "Ready?" he asks, and you simply stick your tongue out further in answer.

Sequel >>

[dhampling]

the kitchen two 18+, 2.7k

nobody pining over the potwasher with the pretty face and snide tongue, and it feels like such a damn shame.

-

this started as a joke and now you're touching astarion up out back of a pizza express/olive garden/insert generic chain restaurant you both work at.

part one here.

cw: fem!reader x astarion, 18+, astarion is a potwasher, sex, reader smokes, astarion vapes, fingering, frottage, workplace copulation, not beta read, porn without plot pretty much, oh no, not gn reader as tags initially stated because im awful and copy pasted them over

FATTEST THANK YOU TO @bhaalism AND @lipstickghoulie for DEALING WITH ME as always <3

-

“You need to get laid.”

You take the vape from a waiting hand and hold it in your teeth. Feel the ridges where his own have left small indents in the plastic and nestle yours in the shiny crooks. 

“Hm?” 

“You. You’re practically drooling.” He blinks slowly as you look up to the clouds.

“I’m afraid my harem of devastatingly beautiful lovers are all indisposed. On the yacht, obviously.” You pull a face, huffing a long inhale and releasing the smoke in soft stutters. He snorts. 

“Ah. That’s why you reek of hormones, then?”

You smile.

“Probably. New schedule has done little for any conquests, I’ll be honest.”

Astarion takes a moment as you pass him back his vape, flipping it absentmindedly between deft fingers and scrunching his face.

“Unfortunate.”

You playfully slap his arm and he recoils in a brief snarling laughter, ending on some churlish half-smile as he leans back on the wall.

Those fingers. Slender, pale; always moving to some comment or chore with a slight flourish. You note how surprisingly unblemished they seem for his line of work, and the fact you’ve never seen him with hand balm. Even in the low light spilled scarce from the doorway they have a certain sparkle to them. Poise. 

He knows you’re looking, and you’re a little surprised it seems to matter. Coy as he inhales something deep. 

Obviously, it’s a possibility. It happens.

The nature of your work leads to frequent hookups amongst you, as it always has - some incestuous tangle of ex-lovers and yearning hopefuls all weaving the same sticky tables and navigating the age-old sore break-room banter when it inevitably cools between the sheets. Word travels fast, and not one of your workmates has escaped the hated minimum-wage service tradition of copulating with your colleagues in some drunken fumble after a particularly awful shift - but him, though. You can’t say that you’ve put out feelers per se, but his name has never been mentioned - either positively or negatively - on the grapevine, not that you can recall. Nobody pining over the potwasher with the pretty face and snide tongue, and it feels like such a damn shame.

In all fairness, he doesn’t lend himself to open fawning. He doesn’t mingle like the rest do. Never attends the seasonal socials thrown by upper management nor stays after hours drinking with the rest of the kitchen, as if he’d opted out of the greasy workplace ham-slamming ecosystem entirely. 

Above it all. Godlike. You can’t have that. 

You could invite him in, you think, as his head tilts ever-so-slightly toward you in the cool smoke. His nails tap mindless against gaudy green plastic and you picture little but those now-familiar obscene vignettes of him, those very same fingers taking the warm fat of your flesh by the fistful, bending you - pliable in the desperate chase of wanton heat - over the stainless steel of the chef’s station, with a forceful hand to the waist; smushing your face sideways on the counter as he humps you to visceral burning delight over and over, the relentless piston of hungry hips as he pounds into your drooling hole, and;- 

“At least they have each other, I suppose. Aboard that gorgeous yacht.”

Your eyes meet his, a mutual hum. Silence as the rain smatters on gravel.

It’d be easy. Sidle past him through the walk-in door left slightly ajar - vaping, of course; why else would the pot washer be in the cooler? - and feel the looming hope of flesh so close. A crooked smile in silent greeting. Take your time in bending for the lemons, apron ties bowed over your rear as some awful present. He’d never slap your ass so crudely. The lingering want for a tap of flesh, for him to feel the soft jiggle of solid fat on a quick palm; never to move to touch you until you’d made your intentions abundantly clear.

Your intentions.

You could accidentally back up against him whilst still bent and oh-so lost in search for whatever perfect fucking lemon takes this long to find, ass smacking onto his crotch, mouth shaped as an ‘o’ where sudden realisation takes hold, through layers of standard-issue service garb - a barely-there cant of your hips at the surprise friction of his cock. 

He’s been watching. Ogling. Angling himself toward you, as if having pictured how best to bury himself inside you should the opportunity arise. 

Would he grab you by the hips? Take rough handfuls of heated skin and flesh, pull you in to rub over his growing erection with an obscene snarl and heavy lids in a sharp frenzy? Snaking a deft hand down the front of your apron and under the waistband of your trousers, unhurried but firm; searching for the evidence he can practically smell; proof that you’ve been melting, the pool of slick in your panties growing gummy between stolen moments of fantasization on the floor and the molten rumble of low-laughter as he bends you over the mesh shelving, his lower abdomen being thoroughly stickied with a liberal helping of your arousal.

“What are you doing tonight?”

You turn to him with a nonchalant smile and he groans, upper lip curling toward his nose.

“I’ll be here. Same as you, I presume?”

“Not for too much longer, though - how about after?”

Astarion runs a hand through his hair coolly, vape returning to his pocket as he stands off the wall. 

“Not there yet. Who knows?”

The slight of a fox-wink as he twirls back through the door, jacket flaring out behind him before disappearing into the back-of-house once more.

-

Time passes as if stuck stiff under a violent gutter-sun.

The softest visions of him lit by the dented metal of the big old dishwasher, shifting to adjust himself under linens; and after much thought you decide he’d be so very pretty, touching himself something mad. Even more so than usual. Leaky and hot and gasping in mindless carnality under the blacklight of the back bathroom with penis in hand, wincing at the fevered paw moving dumb to offer any relief in his plight. A delicious sigh whilst rolling the hot skin back, bit-by-bit from the tip, working the gathering glisten ever-so-softly over his aching slit in delicate strokes. 

A stolen glance through the service window, through the bumbling hordes in their whites; a shock of silver hair, short sleeves cuffed, brows furrowed as he scrubs at some porcelain bowl with a strange blase determination. 

It’s effortless. He’s not posing, wholly unaware that you’re watching. Scalding from the heat lamps as your fingertips press into the ledge, waiting for plates for one of your tables and teetering back and forth into the gap. He picks another bowl from the crate with a practised hand, tossing it gently into the other and dunking it in the water with finesse. Scrubs. Holds the curving gloss to the light for a moment and narrows his eyes before repeating the process, then loading it onto the dishwasher crate. 

Mindless. 

God. All mindless. You could offer to help him after a busy evening, perhaps; take charge of the pre-wash as he loads the machine, well oiled in your steps as they grow ever closer to one another - surprisingly so, with your lack of practice. Let the hose spray free down your front in a fumble with the pressure lever on the side, and the moment of shock as you gasp; the warm water turning ice cool on your chest, no disguising the quick pebbling of your nipples underneath your sodden underclothes. 

Maybe it’s panic that compels him to dab at your chest with a dry towel as opposed to throwing it to you in a tight-scrunched ball and continuing to load the washer - but maybe it isn’t. 

Maybe it’s something else altogether. Those red eyes darken to a plush carnal smoulder and he tilts his head, begging you to close the gap, to give him permission; to stretch a palm just a little further over to the swell of your breast and cup the soft, heavy flesh through the thin layer of wet cloth.

He’s right, of course. Desperately so.

You do need to get laid.

-

Black sky overhead, speckled with pinpoint stars and laced with the twinge of cold that makes your nose feel funny - and you suspect he’s one of the last to leave this evening, so you wait a minute or two for management to finish their final walkthrough.

He appears with a flourish. Your lean-back on the wall remains as composed as it can as he barrels through the doors, bag high on his shoulder; and begins to fish in his back pocket for his vape.

“Astarion!”

He spins and meets your gaze with a fantastic grin, incisors sharp as his vape meets his lips. You can do this. A quick fuck. Everyone here does it, christ. 

“Yes, love?”

“Have you got a minute?”

“For you? Always.”

Purring. He’s purring.

You wave management farewell as they lock the doors - a small smile, yet you can’t let him slide from you. You can’t let the moment falter. The wet patch in your pants becomes horrifically apparent as you shift from side to side in the cool air, and you surmise that this needs resolving before your humility suppresses the want to have him between your legs - so you extend a hand. You reach for the vape between his lips and you bring it to your own, ever so slowly; holding it between your teeth in a coy stand-off.

“Bold.”

“I’m feeling bold.”

“Oh?”

“Walk with me.”

He offers you an arm in an exuberant display of mock-chivalry, bowing almost; and you take it to pull him closer to your side. 

“You’re in a good mood.” You muse, steering him down the dark alley and toward the main street whilst he sighs a laugh.

“I presume you’re about to buy me a drink, which is always most welcome.”

“I’ve never bought you a drink?”

“The pleasure is more in the receiving of the drink, not whoever’s buying it.’

He turns to look at you while you walk, tugging you closer. 

‘Unless you’d like me to find pleasure in you, my generous benefactor?’

You stop in your tracks, and he grins in place.

‘Because that’s what this is about; isn’t it, little lamb?’

Time stops, signalled by the slow stutter of your heart as his voice drops silken, taking both of your wrists in hand.

‘I can practically smell it, you know.”

“What makes you so sure?”

He pulls a face. Looks at you softly.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Sorry.”

“I won’t pretend it’s not been on my mind, though.”

“Hm?”

Astarion sidles closer, toes touching; breath cool on your cheeks. Mint. 

“Burying myself inside you. All kinds of-’

His hands gesture lightly around his head, controlled as they close in on your face.

‘Wicked images. The things we could do.”

Your eyes flutter closed as he cups your face, lips grazing the edge of his palm.

“I watch you too, you know - oh, it makes me hard just thinking about it. Humping the sink counter like some wanton… bitch;- whenever can I get a moment, just to get some friction, clothes ruined time and time again over obscene visions of myself buried deep inside-’

Takes your chin between pointer finger and thumb.

‘Your. Desperate. Cunt.’

He breathes a giggle.

‘Just as I assume yours are now, hm? Ruined? Oh, the sheer debauchery.”

Tuts. The breeze fades and he comes impossibly closer, hands ghosting the broad of your shoulders then cutting across to the dip of your waist and you inhale and that smell of him. The scent of by-your-side and beleaguered evenings, laced with something heady. Salt. You whimper when you eke the words out.

“You smell so good.” Practically whining, metaphorical drool linking the two of you as if invisible string. A deep beat of laughter.

“Sweet one. So do you.”

His nose buried in your hair, fingers grasping at the warmth of your hips through layers of sweaty workwear. Your core blazes white hot, legs failing you - he’s here. He wants you. God, you’d never thought it’d feel this good, even in your wildest fantasies; and yet you’re standing out in the bitter cold locked tight in by his hands and it exceeds every conceivable outcome for this conversation, ever, despite his cock not yet prodding you once. 

He takes the vape from where your fingers hang frozen and puts it into his pocket, guiding your fingers to the front of his trousers in your obscured embrace and pressing your palm to the front.

Hard. He’s ridiculously hard. Warm and pulsing with strong hips writhing as your hand gives him something to push against. 

“Fuck.”

“Nicely, now.”

His hand moves under your coat and to the front of your own trousers as you feel him through his, scrunching your fingers around his length; whilst he slides deft under the fixings just as you’d imagined he would. Ice to a fire. Moves quickly in the search for your slick like a moth mindless toward a flame, when he finds your slit and takes a single finger to press between your folds. 

“Ah. There she is.’

Your breath catches on his words,  

‘My darling girl, you’re soaking. How long have you been like this?”

“Just today, or on the whole? I can’t remember a time where I’ve not wanted you, not since that first day outside.”

He groans quietly, eyes rolling back into his skull as he coaxes more of your spill forth onto the flat of his palm with a skilled finger toying at the hood of your clit. It feels incredible. Like a warm bath or fresh pizza times a thousand. 

“Did you like the idea of my spit in your mouth, love? Forgetting your smokes on purpose, buying me treats just so you could share? So you could… take me, in your mouth, and wallow in having me there in secret? Bad girl.” A sordid whisper. Heady. Love. Bad girl. You’re struggling for air, newly weakened flesh bowled completely over by his brutal advances, and it’s heaven. You could die here in this alley and you’d be wholly satisfied with life knowing he touched you. He was hard for you, his cock desperately seeking solace in the warmth of your core, to christen your cunt with lashings of himself inside you. Yours. You. 

You thought your resolve was stronger than this. That you could match him in whatever game he potentially wanted to play and do it with flair - but as he stands in front of you, hand crudely down your trousers round the back of your shared workplace; you have no desire to play coy any longer. He’s giving himself to you. 

“Kiss me?”

And he does. A heady drawl as his lips stoop to meet yours, a string of yes-yes-yeses whispered flush into your open mouth as he moves with you, fingering with reverent strokes whilst your hand fiddles hungrily with his underclothes and he laughs with a satisfied ease as if a Roman Emperor, hosting a banquet on the eve of some grand resounding victory. 

Right here, by the bins under the watchful eyes of the CCTV cameras dotted along the brick - it doesn’t work. It can’t happen here. Your brain fizzes all shades of yellow and orange as you take his arm, breaking the open-mouthed kiss with urgency and tugging his head down until his ear hangs dazed a hair’s breadth from your lips. 

“Yours or mine?”

“Where’s closer?”

Gravel. Cheeks flushed, hands frisking your waistband once more as you swat him off.

“Yours, probably.”

“You checked the staff files, didn’t you? Naughty thing.”

You huff into a slight hunchback, bemused by his deduction.

“Maybe. Are you mad about it?”

Your hand grabs at his cock through his trousers once more and offers a hard squeeze, a stuttered moan from his mouth.

“Meh. So long as you make it up to me, yes?”

He pauses to press a chaste kiss to your mouth as you both rebutton and fumbles to take your hand in his. 

“God. Yes. I promise.”

“Come along then, temptress. Mine -’

Another to the back of your hand, soft and deep.

‘- it is.”

-

[first-edition]

Priority

Castiel has always taken care of you and prioritized you, especially in bed. But when you try and fail to prioritize him he reassures you.

Cw- smut. Unprotected p in v (WRAP THAT SHIT UP), Castiel x fem reader, y/n used, pet names, mention of riding, brief clit play description, cream pie, crying, brief embarrassment, aftercare, missionary.

THIS FIC IS NOT FOR THE EYES OF MINORS. DNI

Your breathy moans that you’d booth been swoallowing penetrate the air around you. Your hands rest on your lovers chest as you towers your lower half up and back. His cock peircing you perfectly over and over.

One grip on your breast the other on the flesh of your hip. Castiel always takes care of you when you share the intimate act of sex. But you’ve wanted to take care of him. Granted he dosnt need it being an angel. If anything he gets off more on taking care of you after.

Him begin able to hold you and clean you up. He loves the thought of you being small and fragile for an human and angel combination.

“Ngh f-fuck..” your motions falter and cass immediately takes note pulling his hand away from your breast and to the other hip holdin your steady the new touch makes your cunt clench around him causing him to groan in repose.

You continue once more however the burning in your thighs begins to take a toll. It’s only been 20 minutes and yet you cant support yourself. The unminding feeling of pathetic and useless to please him begin to dwindle on your mind set as you shut your eyes and hang your head. Your movements continue.

Cass notices you sudden change and is more than happy to get into action. He stops your hips and takes your hands in his before sitting you and lifting your face to his connecting your lips. His right around wraps around your body and his left moves down his hand caressing your thigh.

“I got you love.” He says briefly giving you air from the heated kiss. He pulls you close to him and turns you both over so he remains on top and and adjusts you perfectly before continuing. His thrusts up into you make your head spin as he’s proped up his arms beside your head as he breaths against you.

Your arms wraps around his neck your fingers finding his hair. You grip onto his short locks and shoulder as he thrust dont falter. His groans and moans in your ear run straight to your core.

Tear threaten to prick your eyes as your become defeated. With your lack of triumph with wanting to do something for cass for once. But your shame is over powered by the rush of pleausre as his hand moves down between your legs immediately finding your clit circling only needing to be a few times before you come undone under him.

Cass curses against your skin as he feels your cunt tighten around his cock causing his thrusts to falter.

“Ple-please.. i-inside.” You gasp out before he roughly pushes up into you cumming deep within you. Granted something worse than hell itself could be spawned becuase of his action but neither of you cared. All you both cared about the pleausre you were blinded by.

Your nails dig into his shoulder as he thrusts his finish back up into you a few more times before inevitably pulling out carefully as to not hurt you or cause you more sensitive discomfort.

He trails kisses down from your lips over your chest and stomach before pulling back from you to move right back to your lips. His soft touch on your waist and gentle touch causes the tears that were pricking your eyes begin to spill over your eyes down onto your cheeks. Castiel pulls back in worry his hand placing itself on your cheek his thumb swiping off you tears pure concern in his eyes.

“Y/n? My love? Whats wrong? Was i too rough? Im sorry I didn’t mean to be..” he expresses as he begins to look your nude body over you shake your head no to him.

“I-im embarrassed…” you cry. He frowns scanning your face wondering why.

“Why? Have i done something to embarrass you?” He asks blaming himself for the root of your problem.

“N-no i..” you sniff trailing off.

“Look at me. What is it?” He asks again.

“You alway d-do so much for me…in bed and out of. I just…i wanted to do something f-…for you. I cant even ride you long enough before my legs give out.” You say turing your head to the side to look away. He places his hand back on your cheek moving you back to look at him.

He shakes his head giving you a reassuring smile.

“You’re a human. Im an angel, i dont want to say i have more stamina than you but it’s true. I dont want you to have to pleasure me. I gain more than enough when i do so to you. You make me so happy and well…horny just being you and allowing me to take care of you hmm?” He says a faint blush dusts over your face.

You nod to him before he places a chase kiss on your lips.

“I love you so much and i will always be please to take care of you. Now allow me to draw a bath for you hmm?” He asks although getting up to do it anyway. You nod to him. You hold out your arms like a kid wrapping them around his neck pressing your lips against his which he happily reciprocates.

“I love you too.” You speak pressing your foreheads together once you both break to kiss.

[xxsugarbones]

-as a kite 🪁

-just 🍃smoking🍃 with your fave character

cw- implied afab!reader but no terms used, heavily implied plus size reader, dr*g usage (weed), brief mention of oral (reader rec.), brief mention of p in v, shotgunning at the end

wc - 1.1k

|| an - hello!! this is my first post so pls be nice because i am terrified of posting this lmfao. very clearly inspired by the fact that i am currently high as a kite and these are just my cheeky little delulu ramblings 😭 This is obviously very self indulgent because all i can every think about doing while high is these kinds of scenarios 😮‍💨

pls enjoy!!

Lately I’ve been thinking about smoking with my faves- or even just getting high with them in general. Whether it be edibles, smoking joints, or smoking cones.

But to be very specific, instead of having edibles or smoking a joint, you two are sharing a bong. Short, but slender, the perfect little “pocket rocket” as you liked to call it. Perfect for travelling, and for moments like these, so he doesn’t burn himself too easily.

He’s got you straddling his lap, one of your hands holding the bong up to your lips and the other resting just atop his wrist, holding him still. One of his own hands held the lighter to the cone piece, allowing you to take the deep inhale, while the other made sure to keep your loose hair pushed back with two fingers, almost cupping your face in the process. He could feel the heat from the lighter on the thin skin of his wrist, but he paid no mind to it, instead watching the way the thick white smoke filled the chamber. You almost finished the entirety of the pull but had to pull back just towards the end, eyes closed and head quickly throwing back. Thick, rolling ‘o’ shaped puffs of smoke were blown from your mouth, and he watched them rise up, rolling for a good few seconds before they slowly dispersed.

“Ooh, nice ones, baby. Think they’re the best ones you’ve done so far.” He praised, moving the hand from your hair down your neck, running it gently along your torso and hip, until letting it come to rest on your thigh to keep you steady. Which turned out to be a good move, because a few seconds later you moved the hand from his wrist, tucking your mouth into your elbow and coughing. He chuckled, shaking his head and taking the bong from you, setting it to the side and raising his hand to carefully help rub over your chest to try and soothe the burning feeling with his warm palm. The coughing fit lasts for a few seconds, before you can finally relax, letting out a shaky sigh. You opened your eyes, little tears from how rough the fit was wetting the corner of your bloodshot eyes, and a sheepish little smile pulling your lips upwards. He laughed and just how high you actually looked.

“Oh honey.” He cooed, reaching for the little bottle of water he’d kept by his side just in case. He slipped it into your hands, and you thanked him sweetly, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip. He watched your throat bob ever so slightly as you swallowed the water, and he hummed out a lazy “no worries” in response. He watched you fully relax again, screwing the cap back on and setting it back down and your sides.

“Y’feelin’ better now?” He cooed, his hand sliding down the centre of your chest, making your cheeks flush at the intimate touch, and smoothing it down your stomach, your muscles twitching a little at the almost ghostly touches. You weren’t ticklish, but that particular spot, just above your pubic bone, the soft pudge of your stomach was sensitive to his touch. He enjoyed the feeling of the flesh subtly twitch under the palm of his hand, and it always made your breath shudder at the same time.

“Y-Yeah. I’m good.” You breathed, just watching his eyes take in your slightly dopey expression. He chuckled, carefully grabbing your jaw and pulling your face forward towards his own. You angled yourself down so he could connect your lips in a sweet kiss. You cooed against his lips, your hands gently cupping the sides of his neck to keep him close to you. A few soft kisses ended up turning into a slow make out session, your arms thrown around his neck, a hand carefully tangled into the roots of his hair at the back of his neck, nails scratching nicely along his scalp, while his hands rest on your ass, squeezing and very occasionally smacking the thinly covered flesh over your little pyjama shorts. His tongue lapped slowly at yours before carefully pulling it into his own mouth, giving it a little suckle that made you whimper against his lips. He returned it with a chuckle, letting your tongue go after one last gentle lick of his own against the tip, and you pulled back for air, panting. He reached up, using the palm of his hand to carefully swipe away some combined spit that had dribbled from the corner of your mouth. He looked cocky- he always looked cocky when you were like this, flustered and needy, just for him. It meant he could play with you just how he liked, and hell, you were not complaining. Sometimes he would lay you on your back, head between your thighs and licking and sucking you like you were the sweetest treat on earth, your sensitive body writhing under his ministrations while he had his fill. Or he’d have you on your hands and knees, face pushed into the pillows and your back arched, kneeling behind you and fucking you absolutely dumb until you had forgotten your own name, and could only recite his like a mantra. And you loved every single second of it.

But as you whined when he didn’t move for a moment, he simply reached over for the bong, plucking it back up once again and carefully tucking it into your hand again, and snatching up the lighter off the couch cushion. He smirked at your slightly surprised expression.

“Aren’t you gonna have any, baby?” You questioned softly. He hushed you, watching you slot your lips into the glass, and sparked the lighter up again, watching you once again inhale, the smoke rising quickly into your mouth, and into your lungs.

“‘s fine, I’ll have some after you finish yours, pretty. Just thought you could use a top-up.” He taunted, eyes half lidded and seductive. You pulled the remainder of the cone with relative ease, pulling back from the bong and once again leaning down, holding the smoke in your mouth, until you were close enough to softly blow it onto his face. He wanted to tease, so could you. He let out a sound between a sneer and a purr, quickly nearing his lips to yours as he inhaled the smoke you blew into his face.

“Little minx.” He growled, smacking your ass again, making you jump, then giggle, blowing him a kiss.

Yeah. 😩

[fuckmysuguru]

Quiet — Suguru Geto

— CW: 18+ smut. PiV. PwP. Riding. (Very brief) mention of exhibitionism/voyeurism. Creampie. (Slight, very) dumbification. | word count: 0.8k (not proofread!)

— a/n: My first fic for Geto. I am such a Suguru Slut. Lol. If you know me you don't.

“Good girl, that’s it— ride me.” His voice is soft as a lullaby as his big hands grip the supple flesh of your ass, guiding you up and down his hard cock. Suguru’s long hair falls down his shoulders, some dark strands sticking to his sweaty face. It is incredible how attractive he looks and how calm he can stay during sex.

Every time you try to speed your movements he stops you, scolding you with a soft slap on your ass. Patience is a virtue, he says, although sometimes he is the most impatient person you have ever met. His dark eyes glue to your bouncing breasts, licking his lips and leaning closer to wrap his mouth around your perky nipple. Suguru sucks eagerly, swirling his tongue over the nub until it’s puffy and so hard it is borderline painful. A small whimper falls down your lips and he quickly silences you with a sly smirk against your skin. “Keep it down, dollface. You don’t want Mahito to hear you, right?” You shake your head at his words, biting your lip to keep your moans in. “Good girl, you learn fast. I don’t share.” Surugu continues, lifting his hips to meet yours. Your breath hitches in your throat, feeling him impossibly deep. It is not fair how easy he can make you come. 

Switching sides, he gives the same treatment to your other nipple until both are covered in bite marks and little hickeys. Since day one he had been a possessive man and what better way to show the world he owns you than with those marks all over your neck and chest? He sees the way Mahito sees you, how the hunger in his eyes burns his miserable soul— if he even has one— and he fucking loves to rub it on his face that he is the one who fucks you good. And more often than not, the thought of taking you right in front of his face crosses his mind and fuels him with a newfound desire. Suguru knows it will make his blood boil— and if he can prove no one will ever make you cry and come and scream the way he does… then for what is his dick for?

“Suguru—” You gasp, gripping his shoulders with a strength that borderline amazes him. He sees you as nothing more than a weak little butterfly, so easy to rip your wings off and turn you into a mindless puddle with his cock. “I’m gonna come.” That adorable pout makes his dick throb inside you. 

“Do you want to come, bunny?” He mocks you, raising his head to look at you with a cocky grin. His lips are swollen and covered with his spit from sucking at your tits. You nod eagerly at his question, missing the teasing edge. It is so easy to play you dumb and he adores that; it grants him with a wave of power and dominance that makes him feel alive. The slick sound of sweaty skin slapping is music to his ears, and he knows he is breaking his own rule of not being too loud but at this point, with the way your wet cunt is clenching around him, spamming with the force of your orgasm— he doesn’t give a fuck who is listening. “Do it.” His left-hand lets go of your ass to grab the roots of your hair, yanking your hair back and granting him a delicious moan of pain. 

He knows he won’t last long with the way your body is milking him, begging him to release his hot, sticky cum inside you. With a few more forceful thrusts along with the constant friction of your needy little clit on his lower abdomen, you choke a broken moan mixed with his name. Suguru watches amazed at how your breasts bounce, grunting a weak curse feeling his orgasm teetering with every jerk and pulsation of your tight, velvety walls around his cock. His sharp teeth dig into the exposed neck to muffle the loud groan of his release, still bouncing you despite the small cries of overstimulation that threaten to transform into tears. Crying in front of Suguru Geto is dangerous… he might get hard again.

Just like you wanted, his cum floods your insides and leaks, pooling at the base of his cock. He has been edging himself for a while knowing that when he comes he will fill you up just the way he knows you like. Painting your pretty walls white is what he needs after a long week of dealing with idiots. 

Breathless, you rest your sweaty forehead against his shoulder. The bite on your neck stings and you are sure he might have drawn blood but that’s the magic of it. That’s just a percent of how rough sex with Suguru can be. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

𓆩⟡𓆪 English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistakes.

[softshuji]

𝟐𝟑:𝟏𝟕𝐏𝐌 | 𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀

Title: Maybe I love you

Summary: Izana finds that he comes to you every night, but it doesn't mean he wouldn't kill anyone who knew that though. Link to main masterlist here!

cw: fem! reader, semi-suggestive, possessiveness, brief kissing, nightmares, izana and reader are a bit dense, reader calls him sir, pet names (good girl) mentions of sex (nothing explicit) praise, marking. Reblogs appreciated!

Izana doesn’t know if he has the capacity to appreciate beautiful things, he doesn’t know if he knows how, at least not in any way that doesn’t involve destroying them. The stars for example, bright and cold and so close he can skim them with his lithe fingers as he sleeps beneath a moonlit night, the velvet blanket of dark dotted by a sheen of glitter and he thinks he can feel the chill of the more distant ones as the breeze blows in through the open window.

The netting flutters, catches on the exposed wood, the single strip of the torn windowpane, a not-so-subtle reminder of his earlier outburst and he wants to ruin it again, wants to rip away the memory and feel the blood on his knuckles, the callouses torn open, flesh peeling back to remind him of something, to feel something.

His gaze drops from the moon, pearly, opalescent and milky white in the sky, to the upturned guitar on the chair, strings pulled loose, curled with the force by which he’d smashed it against the ground in his grief, loose splinters of varnished wood now beige against the dark carpet. And he thinks this when the regret sets in, an unfamiliar feeling for him, because he is Izana Kurokawa and he has not gotten this far by constantly looking back. Has he?

But it feels foreign to some extent. The lash of pain in his chest, the tightening of his ribs, the sting in his throat, in his eyes when he remembers how he’d slammed it against the ground and all the anger had seemed so trivial when he heard the string snap, a chord that burned at somewhere he thinks a heart might be. 

Just like all those things he has lost to something or another, some divine providence that keeps taking from him. He glares at it, as if the splinters of wood and varnish are themselves responsible, as if they can sate his anger, assuage his rage against the world.

You’re in the room next door, and you hear the soft pad of his feet hitting the carpet, the shuffle of sheets and a clunk or two as he picks up the two broken halves of the guitar, of his heart. He frowns, now that the clarity has descended and the moon has shifted behind the clouds and tries to piece it together, joining them back, something lurching inside when they crash against his cut palms again, all varnished wood and strings loose with force.

It’s a shame that his hands are only for breaking, isn't it?

He has an ear trained on your room, and in truth he isn’t sure what drives him to drop the guitar onto the unmade bed, sheets twisted, the imprint that remembers him as clearly as you always do. 

The hallway light flickers on, pale yellow spilling through the slice at the bottom of your door. It always happens like this. He comes to you as midnight approaches and you reach for him and he latches onto you till morning pours over the sky and then he pulls away again and again and the cold indifference slams down on you, a metal sheet of steel and frost.

And you let him. Every night, your arms open, skin warm, him practically folding into you, his mouth warm against your neck, teeth grazing the juncture of your shoulder. 

It’s predictable. Izana Kurokawa finds himself in your bed every night.

He knocks. ‘Y/N.’ A command as usual, the edge of his voice a little higher, a little more desperate, the inflection of a question, of a plea all the same, because despite himself, he’s determined to keep up the act and pretend like he’s just using you to warm himself.

‘Come in, it’s open,’ you say, muffled by the sheets, your hair spilling ink across the pillows, your back to the door and watching the light seep across the carpet as he shuffles in.

He looks smaller like that, dwarfed by the light, pyjama pants rolled up to the knees, the messy hair framing his face and haggard eyes that still reflect the moonlight falling in eaves across the painted wall. 

You turn over, your cheek pressed to the soft Egyptian cotton, fatigued eyes squinting against his shadow. 

There is a second of recognition, understanding even, as his gaze drops to you huddled under soft throws and a heavy duvet in his shirt that just about reaches your thighs. It sends the blood rushing in waves to his head seeing you like that. In the bed he owns, the shirt he wears that kisses your skin in all the right places, with the hallway light glinting off the mahogany headboard. 

You look at him, dishevelled and beautiful, cold and distant. He is spring frost clinging to Winter’s chill, to what he knows, and you are the late spring blossom that thaws the mildew in the morning.

‘Izana?’ Your vision hazy, dotted with the black spots of exhaustion, but forthcoming all the same, the softness of your eyes, your upturned mouth a balm for his anxiety. 

‘Y/N.’ He says your name like a command, like a request. You like the way it sounds from him, the power that curls along it, as if you are more than you are, as if he can make you more. His prized possession to mould and touch, the fire that warms him. 

You open out your arms, still on your side and he all but crawls into your embrace, slotting himself against you, his breath warm against your neck. You shuffle forward, your arms around the small of his back and pull, not all together gently, till his pelvis bumps against yours. Your thigh lifts against his, weighs him down and your hands come up to tug at the hair at the base of his neck and all the while, he is softly sighing, dry and slightly dehydrated lips grazing the column of your throat and all of it elicits a slight shiver from you, needy and tenuous all at once. 

‘You okay?’ You start, your voice low and undulated by the whistle of the breeze through the draught, the silence that’s almost weightless and heavy, thick with tension.

‘I’m fine.’ His chest against yours, cheek laying flat against the dip under your collarbones. A lie, because he’s used to it, because he has a facade to keep up and he’ll be damned if he allows himself to look weak, even in front of you. Especially in front of you.

‘I heard you. Couldn’t sleep?’ If he hears you swallow against the tide in your throat, he makes no mention of it. 

‘I was… having trouble.’

‘Me too. Are you going to stay?’ And maybe you crave him as much as he does you, maybe it is nice to be needed, to be owned in such a way by someone like him, who could easily break you if he chose, who moulds you to wrap yourself around him, buries himself in you till there is him, and only him. 

He blinks, pulls you closer, tighter, his hands resting against the dip in your hips, the familiar ache of you tightening in his stomach when your breath fans his ear.  

‘I’ll stay,’ he says, as if you had thought he’d say any different, as if he has not made a pattern of silently begging for warmth. ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’

You sigh, your tongue darting out to lick at chapped lips. ‘Nightmares, as usual. Thinking about things.’ It is a silent understanding, the weight of a shared and perhaps understood experience. Is that not what it means to be human?

‘Mhm.’ His voice is rough, the low cadence of it is a rumble in his chest, a thrum against yours.  He nestles further into your touch, his lips meeting the plane of your chest and your heart jumps under his breath. ‘What was the nightmare about?’ 

‘You’re sure you want to know? They’re all the same.’

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance as his lips press a soft and hesitant kiss against the slope of your collarbone. He pretends, but he is not half as good a liar as he assumes he is. Or maybe it is that this corrugated wall of concrete and metal and roughness is chipped away when he is alone with you.

‘I dreamt about you, about you dying.’ And it happens so often that the sharp and jagged edges of that paralysing fear have wilted away and left only numbness there, despite the fact that you know that nightmare could come any day now, a day where maybe you search for him as he lies in the snow. 

He pauses, his breath tickling your clavicle. ‘I see.’ And he sighs and tucks an arm around your back, a kiss here and there and always so chaste, as if he is holding back. ‘It was just a dream, not real.’

Perhaps that’s why this works, why you come back, why you let him shape you. A shared fear, a need for each other, the push and pull of a puppeteer and a puppet on a string. Maybe for once, letting go isn’t so hard, letting yourself be moulded by his rough hands seems almost blissful when his breath tingles at the hollow of your throat.

Today is worth a little more though. Today the tension in his bones is rigid, sharp and you can tell by the way his grip tightens on your hips, keeps you pulled flush against him, that the incident is still weighing heavily on his mind. 

You test the words out on your tongue, search the spiderwebs for courage. ‘Don't worry about the guitar,’ you say and a hand winds into his hair lightly scratching at his scalp.

‘I'm not.’ A lie, he knows that. You do too. It’s easy to see in the violet of his eyes, flecked through with iridescent lavender, the white lashes that kiss the apple of his cheeks, soft and cold as frost. 

‘We can always get it fixed, I'll fix it for you tomorrow.’ You’ve no idea how, the technicalities of it all, the weight of its significance but it hardly matters. Your delicate touch, the unflinching embrace and willingness to run towards him is enough.

‘Why?’

The answer is obvious. ‘Because it means a lot to you, because I want to hear you play, remember?’ You’re smiling, he can sense as much by the curve of your mouth against the soft shell of his ear, the slow and easy exhale of breath that lifts his platinum hair. It had been a flippant request made in a more vulnerable moment, when he had been craving your touch, and you were happy to be wanted by him after spending so long vying for his approval. You had it, you just didn’t know you had it.

‘I don't remember promising that.’ With more mirth this time, a soft sigh that has the tension easing from his bones, seeping through his skin and into yours. 

‘So? No take backs. Consider it a gift for fixing it.’

He almost smiles. And maybe you can’t fix what’s been lost, but you can do this, you can give him yourself to pour his frustration into.You love him, you’ve never said it, never thought it, too scared to approach the sleeping lion, as if by giving it that space you will have brought to life. You wonder if he can love you back in any way that does not hurt so much, if perhaps he can love something that does not end with it broken and lying dead at his feet. You know he can, but you wonder if he knows it.

‘I see. In that case I should reward you.’ 

‘With what? It’s not that big of a deal.’

‘Are you disagreeing with me y/n?’ An eyebrow lifts and his grip on the small of your back tightens in warning, a thrum of energy pulsing underneath the cool of his touch against your warm skin. His hand moves to the back of your neck, squeezing lightly, his thumb and forefinger amping up the pressure before softly skimming over the skin with a featherlight touch.

‘No sir,’ you say, your breath now caught in the confines of your drying throat, your lips sliding along the curve of his smooth neck and tugging on the fine frost of his hair between your fingers. 

‘Good girl.’ His thumb presses on the hollow of your throat and the sigh that escapes your parted lips is instinctual when your forehead drops to the juncture of his shoulder, the praise rolling over your skin in a wave. He tips your head, uses a thumb to tilt it to face him, drinking in your fluttering eyes, the sleep that’s only a moment away, the dilated pupils in which he sees his own reflection exactly how he prefers it. He likes it like this, to be the only one who sees you in this way, who gets to pull the breath from your lungs when his hand tightens around your throat, the power of your life so readily given to him by your own eager hands.

‘Y/N,’ he says, a domineering command, the delicious power of it curling to the base of your spine as his free hand traces the bones under his shirt. 

Your eyes flit to his, wide with both lust and adoration, your neck tingling from his telltale bite marks, the grazing of his teeth along the sensitive skin.

‘Yes sir?’ A whisper. You rock your hips against him subconsciously, a thigh moving to trap him between your legs and you hate how your body betrays you in moments like this, how much you want him to give into the weakness of you, have him carving his name into your skin with the sharpness of his teeth.

His eyes darken, his lips a firm line as he watches you swallow from where his hand is clasped around your throat. It sets something off in him to see you like this, to touch you as if you were made to shape as he sees fit, the willingness of you to run into the lion’s den.

A knuckle brushes your chin, your head tilted up to face him and he waits for your lips to part instinctively before he presses his mouth to yours. 

It’s warm, feverish, desperate even, a muted sigh that he pulls from your lips as his hand strokes the hollow of your throat and when you gasp, his tongue slides along yours in tandem. It’s messy, the saliva breaking in a string when you part for air, only to slot your lips against his again and again, needy and with warmth pooling between your legs every time he bites down and pulls on your lip.

And Izana would kill anyone who knew this was happening, who knew that he came to you every night and begged for your warmth, his arms tightening around you as he whispers your name into the dark. 

You are his secret, his Doll and you know the level of power you hold to mould yourself to him like this, that you are perhaps the only person who has not flinched from his touch. 

He doesn’t know if it’s love, if it’s lust that has him marking the expanse of your chest, his name a choked and breathy whisper that he thinks sounds better to his ears than anything else could, your fingers tangled in his hair as he makes his way down, his tongue expertly gliding over the marks blooming in his wake. Maybe it should matter to you, that come morning, once he wakes up having driven you over the edge and released inside you once more, his mouth warm on your neck,  he’ll pretend as if he has not, as if he does not murmur truths into your skin every night, crawl to your bed like a starving man in the desert and let your name churn in his perfect mouth till the early hours.

It does not. You think you just love the way your name sounds from him, the way the praise comes that much easier when he is between your thighs. 

Or maybe you love him. 

a/n: I have no comments to make this time, only just to say happy birthday to my pretty king !!!!

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[capnmachete]

Augusnippets 2024 Path of Whumperless Whump Day 30: Self-Harm/Addiction/Overdose

Title: The Beach Fandom: Peaky Blinders Characters: Alfie Solomons; brief mentions of Tommy, Ollie, Edna and Cyril CW: Blood and gore, suicidal ideation, and attempted self-harm Summary: The immediate aftermath of the shootout at Margate. Also here on AO3.

THE BEACH After the gunshot on the beach at Margate, Alfie Solomons woke up in stages. For a while -- maybe minutes, maybe hours -- he lay insensate in the sand in a puddle of gore, Cyril snuffling around him. It was the incoming tide that woke him the first time. The icy, lapping surf drenched his clothes; the salt water burned like fire on livid raw flesh. He rose to one knee -- shaky, disoriented, half-blind and choking on his own blood, pawing numbly at his face. And fell again a moment later -- weak from blood loss, hammered back into unconsciousness by the pain that roared through him like a freight train. A merciful black curtain dropped, cutting off the howl that surged up his throat. The second time he woke, it was to the sound of screams. Someone else's screams this time, not his own. A brace of young ladies visiting Margate had come to the seaside with their governess – out for a late afternoon stroll, parasols in hand, looking for sand dollars and seashells.  They found, instead, a nightmare: a soggy, bloody, mostly-dead man, crusted with wet grit, crawling and clawing his way along the beach.  A man with only half a face, the other half a mangled hash of bone and blood and torn flesh. The unfortunate girls had encountered Alfie a good twenty yards up from the tideline. He had blacked out with merciful speed after his first awakening. But the brute animal of his body had kept going -- dragging him out of the water and across the sand, churning dumbly along like a motorcar with a driver asleep at the wheel. The girls' panicked shrieks had dragged him back into hazy wakefulness. The governess -- a former nurse in the war -- had first checked to see if he was alive or dead, and then gathered her frightened charges close like a mother hen. And, luckily (or unluckily, depending on who one asked, and when), had gone to get help, the only reason for Alfie's continued existence in Margate, or anywhere else. Ollie and Edna and a few others have asked Alfie, since then, what exactly he was doing, crawling around on the beach on all fours, bloody and sand-caked and barely conscious. Where he was going. “Fuck if I know, mate,” is his usual answer.  “I was in shock, yeah?  Don’t remember a thing.” If he’s feeling particularly pious that day, he might finish with allelu Adonai, and knock on the wooden table.   Once in awhile, if the mood strikes him, he’ll claim instead that he knew he was gravely injured and maybe dying, and was trying to find help.  Or that he was mindlessly going after Thomas, bent on exacting revenge, even in extremis.

It’s all shtuyot, of course.  Alfie Solomons remembers.  He knows exactly what he was doing that day: feeling his way across the sand, trying like hell to find his dropped revolver, so he could finish the job Tommy Shelby had botched. And he'd spent the first months of his recovery wishing fervently that he'd found it. And succeeded. Of course, that was mostly before – before the letters, before the dreams, before the surprise visitor.  Before the crossing; before Hell Hill, before everything that came afterwards.  Before life started over, allelu Adonai. ___ allelu Adonai: thank God shtuyot: nonsense

[beastboybabyboy]

CW: mentioned possibility of assault, physical and sexual, ‘heat’

Beast Boy knows the animal kingdom better than anyone. Even without his powers, he was raised in an animal sanctuary and learnt to read and write with text books about all kinds of different forms of life on earth.

This helps him in a fight, knowing what animosity will better fit a situation had saved him and his team dozens of times, to the point where he he’s been the sole reason some missions have been successful, though he doesn’t like to think about what could have happened if he wasn’t present.

It’s helped with other things too, like actually getting Robin to care for his wounds when he can sniff them out miles away or making sure each of them has eaten enough by listening to the rumbles of their stomachs. When he once found Starfire having a panic attack and her powers were going haywire, it was the form of a small puppy that helped her ground herself, feeling the soft fur and gushing the little whines he let out at her distress.

His power is good, it helps him, but it also hurts him. More specifically, it hurts others.

The first time he was truely aware of it was when Cyborg tried to take his plate before he was finished and he snap his teeth at him, catching his sharp teeth in the metal of his palm. Cyborg was kind and didn’t bring attention to it and thankfully no one else was present, but all Beast Boy could think was, “what if it wasn’t Cy? What if it was flesh?”

He quickly realised how often he would delve into resource guarding, how he refused to let anyone in his room, how he would get so worked up after a fight he would scratch holes into the walls just to calm down. Worst of all, he realised how sharp his nails were no matter how often he clipped them and how his teeth sometimes produced venom when he got nervous, making his fear of accidentally biting someone so much worse. His once comfort of sleeping on his friends clothes and laps turns into a fear as he accepts that what he’s relaxing doing is scenting.

It’s when his annual heat hits, something that started as he hit puberty and got worse every year, that he truely becomes terrified.

Beast Boy asked for some privacy, saying he feels sick, and locks up his room. He feels gross as he sets up his pathetic little nest, his skin burning as a forced arousal causes his stomach to twist violently. It’s something he used to, but this year feels worse as he realises he’s already feeling more aggressive despite it not even fully hitting yet.

Then, Raven comes by to ask him if he wants dinner. With her powers she instantly feels his distress and tries to open the door but thankfully it’s locked, but it’s enough to remind Beast Boy, or more his body, of the ideal partner he’s been longing after for several months. In seconds he’s launching from his nest and banging against the door, growling and clawing and trying to get to the person he knows could help the pain in his groin, who he could mount and forced down to take his spend and give him a child, the way she would squirm and beg and plead, all of it just for him if the door would just fucking budge-

His growling turns into a fearful and sorry whine as a brief moment of clarity comes through. He feels himself sobbing, once from a need to breed but now from disgust in himself as he realises what he was trying to do to his friend, his Raven.

He hears her talking, something about everything going to be okay, but he ignores it in favour of using his moment of sanity to barricade the door and crawl his wha back to his nest.

He sobs his way through his heat, clawing at his skin, causing blood to mix into the climax littering his shredded bedsheets. Even after it fades and the others come to his door he just sits there, wounded in every way, hating himself and his power, hoping to whatever gods that exist that maybe, just maybe, he could be human again.

The door opens, he’s still a beast.

[finniestoncrane]

12 Days of Kinkmas • Day 4: Spanking - Arkham!Firefly x GN!Reader request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist • dividers minors DNI!! 🔞 cw for nsfw stuff: spanking, mentions of scarring, marking kink if you squint

You bit down hard on your lip, stifling the moans, eyes squeezed tight so hard that tears threatened to push past and trickle down your cheek. Each smack was harder than the last, and doubly satisfying because of it. Each time Garfield's palm crossed your bare cheeks, your rear bent over his lap, your body in his control, you felt your heart leap, and the small knot in your core tighten more, and more as arousal took over.

But this brief pause was somewhat of a blessing. Whatever tolerance you'd built up over the first session was cooling off, and your breath caught in your throat as you waited patiently, anticipation of how the next spank might feel making your knees tremble.

Garfield could feel the way you shifted uncomfortably and tossed his body further back onto the shabby sofa, taking your body with him. Now, you could bury your face into the cushions, or bite down on them, to prevent any sounds of weakness (or enjoyment) from making their way out.

Placing the end of the glove between his teeth, scarred and blistered lips curling back in a sneer as he did so, he turned his head sharply and then spat the article down onto the ground.

"That's better... it wasn't enough before. I need to feel you."

The coarse but tender skin of his palm grazed over your rear, relishing in how smooth it felt in comparison, your body serving as a reminder of how he felt in himself. And, out of some level of bitterness, he raised his palm and groaned as it came down with a crack, your flesh jiggling and settling again, a red, round welt forming immediately. In short, sharp succession, he brought his hand to you again, three times, before he slowed and placed his palm flat against you.

"Yes, this is perfect... now I can see how red you're getting... I can feel how warm you are..."

He tossed his head back, the veins on his blush red neck protruding, visible through the thinned skin. His fingers cut deep into you, pressed tight as he clutched in a way that made you wonder if he thought he might lose you the moment he let go. But he did, after a moment, and let his hand slide down, following the centre of your ass, palm over your entrance as he growled in his gravelly voice.

"The heat coming from you is intense. Shall we see how much we can make your temperature rise? Stoke the fire that burns within?"

You choked on your drool as you tried to mumble out your excited "yes".

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 27: Matches + Scars

Read it on Ao3

- Twilight & Time

- Summary: Twilight gets trapped in a burning building

CW for blood and injury, burn wounds, panic, and brief mentions of death

---------------------

He hates fire. Absolutely hates it, with every fiber of his being, every bone in his body. 

It recalls memories of torches lighting the night, of his friends, his family, scowling at him, shouting.

“It’s one of those cursed beasts!”

“Monster! It took our children!”

“Drive it off! Kill it if you must!”

Twilight yanks at his chains again, a choked sob rising within him. He can’t breathe and it has nothing to do with the smoke beginning to billow from every corner of the room. Though, dragging in ragged, panicked gasps of it certainly isn’t helping matters. 

It sears his throat and lungs, burns his eyes. Everything is drenched in scalding heat. Everywhere are hues of furious, flaming crimsons and burning oranges and searing, golden yellows.  

A flame licks at his tunic sleeve and he jerks away from it. His hands are shaking, thoughts racing. Sweat and blood trickle in rivulets down his face.

Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout, his mind screams. But he can’t move. The shackles that encase his wrists and ankles, though old and rusted, are strong. They don’t yield even when he thrashes and pulls and tears at them until his nails are torn and bleeding.

Tears stream down his face, mixing with the soot. They dry almost as quickly as they appear, lapped up by the ravenous fire.

A ceiling beam cracks mere inches from where he sits and comes crashing down. Twilight’s heart climbs into his throat. 

He’s going to die here. The realization hits him heavily, pressing the air out of his lungs. He’s going to die here alone and terrified. All because he let some monsters get the jump on him.

Claws piercing his arms and legs and torso. Arrows skimming his limbs…some embedding themselves there. Deafening screeches filling his ears. Blood in his mouth, vision blurring as they drag him away. Drifting in a feverish haze as they chain him up and leave him there.

Leave him to burn.

Their master will be pleased, they had said, in their gurgling, bestial tones that he shouldn’t understand but now does. So very pleased to know that the hero that managed to fight off his influence is dead.

Twilight suspects that that is true (though he does have some doubts about whether the Shadow will be happy about not having had a direct hand in the murder). But either way, it doesn’t make it any more pleasant. 

He has people to protect, to save, to come back to; a mystery of vengeance and darkness to solve; a land counting on him to help improve it. He doesn’t have time to die.

And he certainly doesn’t have time to panic. 

He didn’t before, so long ago in Kakariko, when he had had to set the bomb shed on fire to get the job done. But that had been before…that had been before he had slipped up. Before he showed his beastly face once more in Ordon and this time received far worse than a few gashes from the angry talons of an attacking hawk.

Now…now he can’t face it – the bite of open flame. He can’t endure it. Not again.

He chokes on smoke and terror and sorrow. Still fighting even as he suffocates on the smoke that now surrounds him. Even as the inescapable heat begins to sear him like meat on a spit. 

His vision is going hazy, darkness crowding the edges. It won’t be long now…it won’t be long. Soon, he will pass out. And then how can he fight?

The flames crawl across the ground toward him. They catch on his pant leg, hungrily eating away at the fabric. And then they’re at his skin and Twilight is gritting his teeth in an attempt not to cry out. 

It’s fruitless. It hurts. Everything hurts. The sickening scent of burning hair and flesh mingles with that of smoldering old wood. He gags, tasting blood and cinders.

The chains are agonizingly hot now. Not enough to melt, of course. No, just enough to brand his wrists and turn his boots to ash. Just enough to draw out a harsh, agonizing scream.

“Help.” It comes out before he can stop it, desperate, weak, whispered on the tail end of his cry. “Someone help me. Please.”

There is no reply. Save, of course, for the sounds of his oncoming demise. Save for the crackling and popping of the house that is about to collapse atop him.

What will come first? He wonders, distantly. Will the smoke smother him and the flames burn his body? Or will he be buried alive, choking on the remains of the smoldering fire, unable to budge the heavy planks atop him?

He coughs a hacking, painful cough. Blood splatters onto his tunic sleeve. Gasping, he collapses sideways, chains clanking tauntingly. The room swims and he shuts his eyes to block it out.

Suddenly, there is a crash, far louder than the ones before it. It breaks through the incessant whir of nonexistent wind in his ears. Twilight curls in on himself, waiting for the inevitable. 

There is the sound of metal slicing through metal instead. The chains slide off of him and hit the ground. Twilight drags open bloodshot eyes, squinting to try and see past the blur of light and dark. A familiar figure leans over him.

“T-time?” 

It can’t be. It just can’t. 

And yet, it looks like him, tall form silhouetted against the flames. It sounds like him when he speaks.

“I’m here, pup. I’ve got you.”

Twilight coughs again. Breathing is harder than ever now. Every gasp is agony. But Time reaches down and draws him to his chest and he sags against him. 

“You came,” he breathes.

He almost doesn’t want to believe it. Death had seemed so terribly certain…

Sparks and wood clatter downward and Time lets out a sharp hiss. 

“Yes, I came,” he says in a strained tone. He lifts Twilight, murmuring an apology when a low, agonized whine escapes the hero. “I’ll always come for you.”

The words ring in Twilight’s ears as they leave the burning building. The flames still climb to the sky, twining with the plumes of smoke in a mockery to the sun. The ceiling falls in completely just as Time shoves his way out of what was once a door. His hold tightens and Twilight clings to him in return.

“Rancher!”

“Is he alive? Is he okay?”

“I swear, old man, going into that place by yourself. You could have at least waited for us.”

The voices of the others tumble over one another in their race to be heard. 

“He’s alright,” Twilight hears Time call, and then in a more hushed voice, “it appears you were missed.”

Twilight is too weak to laugh, though he wants to. But he manages a shaky grin instead. And as the heroes rush forward with potions and chastises and advice, he closes his eyes and relaxes in Time’s steady embrace.